Between Friends: A Writing Project
by pi-on-a-skateboard
Summary: 6 Friends. 1 Prompt. 500 Words. - A writing project between Different Child, ficdirectory, Tara621, PenMagic, MyMagentaPeach and pi-on-a-skateboard. Each chapter is a one-shot from a different week's prompt. Updates each week!
1. Freefallin' Scientists

**Between Friends: A Writing Project**

****1 prompt, 3 days, 5 friends... and the crazy stalker *coughDON'TFLATTERYOURSELFSTEPHcough* that wanted to play :P

**Prompt: **The exact moment that two best friends fell in love – from StarGleekBelle

**Word count: **725, not including lyrics… Lyrics bring it to 920. Oops…

**Characters: **Who else but Niff?

**Summary: **Jeff discovers that the song in his head matches the song in Nick's heart. Because, hey, you didn't say it needed to explicitly follow the prompt. And, you didn't say that they had to get together at this point in time :P But, go read :P

* * *

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry,_

_You don't know how lovely you are._

_I had to find you, tell you I need you,_

_Tell you I'll set you apart…_

Nick walked through the hallway, eyes downcast, not even aware that he was singing under his breath… Clara was in hospital again. And he was stuck at school. He knew their time was limited. And every hour he spent here, was an hour with her stolen.

All he had in consolation was that song.

_But tell me you love me, come back and haunt me,_

_Oh, and I rush to the start._

_Running in circles, chasing our tails,_

_Coming back as we are…_

Around the corner. Up the stairs. Keep looking down. People won't care. It's not like they care about you… It's not like you've gone out of your way to make friends…

Just get through the day. No, this next class. You can go break down at lunch. Just 53 more minutes. One period. You can do this.

Don't think about family. About her lying there, gasping for breath…

She's okay. She's in hospital. She's okay.

This won't be the last.

_Nobody said it was easy._

_It's such a shame for us to part._

_Nobody said it was easy._

_No one ever said it would be so hard._

_Oh, take me back to the start._

The second bell rang out, warning its students of the eminent start of class, just a minute away. Nick still had to get into Brynmawr… which was a good few minutes away, considering all the students he had to navigate through.

Good. He could allow himself a little weakness. He could allow himself to keep singing under his breath. To rub at his reddening eyes, to sniff, to press a shaking hand to his forehead to help lock any signs of emotion back in there.

To be human.

* * *

_She's a good girl, loves her mama,_

_Loves Jesus, and America too._

_She's a good girl, crazy about Elvis,_

_Loves horses and her boyfriend too._

Jeff… wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to get Tom Petty, of all artists, stuck in his head. Maybe it was Blaine's influence… He'd been singing it all morning, God knows why, and how he managed to get up _so early_, and _every bloody morning_. Better than an alarm clock…

But, point being, it was now stuck in Jeff's head. And so, the Australian found himself sprinting from guitar lesson to maths (no, he was _not_ going to call it _math_ or any other horrible American abbreviation, thank you very much), singing it aloud as he ran.

_All the vampires walking through the valley_

_Move west down Ventura Boulevard_

_And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows._

_All the good girls are home with broken hearts._

So, apparently all the good girls would be saved from Edward Cullen. Interesting. Though, then again, perhaps that was why they all had broken hearts. Because they realised that he wasn't actually real.

I mean… come on. Sparkles? Seriously? There are _so many_ reasons you could give, as to why vampires couldn't go out in the sun. And you settle with the most emasculating, throwing-pixie-dust-around, fourth-of-July metaphor.

… And let's not go into just _how_, exactly, Jeff knew about sparkling vampires… Or why the reading draw of his bedside table had a false bottom…

The second bell was ringing. Jeff quickened his pace again… though at least today he had a valid excuse for being late.

_And I'm free, freefallin'_

_Yeah I'm free, I'm freefallin'_

* * *

CRASH!

"Ow…"

"I'm sorry!"

"No, I should have been paying attention…"

Jeff's hazel eyes glanced up, into those of his… friend. Nick. Whose own eyes were seriously bloodshot and brimming. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Fine," he bristled slightly. "Just… running late."

And… the hesitation in his speech. If the red eyes weren't enough, that was definitely a clear indication that something was wrong. Nick didn't halt in his speech. Nick chose every single word five minutes before they left his lips, to avoid awkward pauses and whatever other fears he had accompanying his painful shyness.

But… Jeff wasn't one to pry. So he stuck out a hand, helped his friend back to his feet. "Yeah, I gotta run… I'll see you at lunch?"

"Sure. Lunch. Sounds good." Nick turned, meant to walk to class… his back hunched over, shoulders heaving as his emotions fought to release themselves.

_And I'm free_

_Nobody said it was easy_

_Freefallin'_

_It's such a shame for us to part_

_Yeah, I'm free_

_Nobody said it was easy_

_Freefallin'_

_No one ever said it would be so hard…_

"Nick?" Jeff had turned back around the instant he heard the first melancholic note. He knew what that song meant… it was a song of comfort. Nick only sang it for his sister, or for Jeff that time he got homesick. Though it sounded… almost happier, meshed with Tom Petty. Like Jeff felt whenever Nick was around.

Nick turned back around, this time with tears streaking his face.

"You're not okay." Jeff said simply, putting an arm around the brunet.

Nick shook his head.

"Then, come on. Come with me." Jeff pulled him closer – the first time, really, that he'd hugged anybody at school – and, similarly, the closest Nick had allowed anyone to him – Nick finally letting go, a cry of anguish escaping him as he burrowed into Jeff's neck. "Don't worry about class. Come talk to me instead."

And, he trusted him.

* * *

**Mm… not entirely happy with this. But, in all fairness, the girls who started this had much less time than myself, so I'm unwilling to really change it a whole lot. Niff just deserve a lot more words than I can afford them at this point in time!**

… **And, I was aiming for a Happy Feet type thing. Not tooooooo sure how that came across, but, meh. It sounds cute in my head. :P**

**Next prompt will be better! Promises!**

**Also, thank you to the lovely, lovely ladies who have let me butt into their group and steal their prompts. These ladies are: Different Child, GleekMom, Melissa Motown, momaboutown, and StarGleekBelle. They are all fantastic writers in their own rights, and you should most definitely go read everything that they've posted. I can only hope I live up to their standards – because these guys are BRILLIANT.**

**Basically, the principle is, one prompt, given to us with… 72 hours to prepare something and post it, and a word limit that we all basically fail at, of 500 words. So, nice and short one-shots. Because I've wormed myself into a little niche, at this point in time I won't be giving my own prompts – and in all fairness, I can't give too much of a commitment at this point in time anyway, because of uni – but with Different Child and GleekMom's blessing, I'm allowed to write for the prompts they have. I can only hope I do them any sort of justice!**

**And, well, I know I have WAY too many WIPs going, but I want to get as regular writing as I can. Plus, I only have 6 weeks left of semester, and 2 weeks of exams following that. So that's 2 months of irregularity… and hopefully it'll continue beyond that! But, I'll do my best. 500 words is usually fairly easy to squash out. :P**

**Well, anyway… I'll leave you with that rambling for now. Note that my usual ANs will definitely occur down the bottom, if you've found me from TSAB or any of the TSAB!verse fics that I have :D**

**Love me? Hate me? Want me to test if the seaweed really is greener in somebody else's lake? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	2. Flawed Stillness

**Prompt: **Most memorable/meaningful summer fling – from momaboutown

**Words: **1,270. Woops… The *next* one is within word limit though! Woohoo!

**Summary: **Because what is more memorable than your first ever love? Set… around 2007, 2008. You can work out their respective ages :P

* * *

There.

There she stood.

There was a slight breeze around – one of those gentle ones, that whispered of nights of warmth and days of sand. Those breezes that excite all senses – the lapping at your skin, the midnight thrumming in your ear, calling you out to it, to embrace it, make love to it. The scent of salt and frangipanis and coconut sunscreen, so strong you can almost taste it, feel it melting on your tongue like ice cream. And, of course – of the objects along its path, that it gently disturbs, wafting along, picking them up and nudging them down its path a little longer, asking only to remain in company for any time it could spare.

The wind did not judge. The breeze did not ask anything.

And there she stood, dead-straight strands of her hair flicking themselves back from her face, accentuating the sharp angles of her nose, her cheekbones. Her loose white tank-top, contrasting the sun-borrowed tan of her skin, fluttering and flapping loosely, showing just a tiny amount of flat tummy. The light denim, ending above mid-thigh, the only thing that reflected the absolute stillness of the girl.

And there he discovered that that was the only thing still about her. Her posture. The rest of her – her emotions, her sense of self… her life… It was all as tumultuous as the waves of salt he could hear crashing in their own strange rhythm on the not-so-distant shore.

The only things constant in her life: her posture, her terrible sadness, and her tragic beauty.

It was a little past midnight, the first time that Wes Montgomery stumbled upon Santana Lopez. She was sitting on a park bench outside his window, arms clenched around her torso as tears streamed down her face.

He could feel her. Feel her anguish. Feel it calling to him, like a black hole.

But he was scared. So he stayed in bed. Watching.

It was 2 am, on the 17th of July, 10 days into summer camp, and the 9th night that she had sat outside his dorm window, that Wes finally felt brave enough.

He went and sat down next to her.

He said nothing.

She looked at him with tear-stained eyes.

Butterflies erupted in his stomach, and he went back to bed.

Santana didn't move.

It was 11 pm, on the 22nd of July, 15 days into camp, when he sat down on the bench and waited for her. Waited for hours.

But Santana never showed. And Wes cried. He had failed her.

It was 1 am on the 23rd of July, when she reappeared.

She gave a furtive look around. She was looking for him. Like a wild animal looks for a human before slinking out of its hole in the middle of the night.

She sat down on the bench. Still. Blending into the shadows. And Wes let her be.

It was 3 am on the 1st of August, 2 days until they would go home, when her weeping woke him from his sleep.

He pulled on a pair of shoes, and grabbed his nightgown. It wasn't cold – not to Wes – but Wes lived in Ohio. Wes didn't get cold. And Wes wasn't in shock.

He sat down next to her again. He didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he placed the robe over her shoulders.

She crumpled sideways onto him.

Santana cried. And Wes held her in his arms.

An hour later, her tears finally stopped falling, replaced by sniffling, like some sort of happiness or serenity could be drawn in with the nitrogen and oxygen and heat of the night.

"Why are you crying?"

She looked at him under dewy eyelashes. "Why do you care?"

"I've seen you," he tried again, gently, cautiously, not wanting to remove that one block from Jenga and have the entire tower crashing down once again. "Every night. You sit by my window and cry. Do you miss your family?"

"No."

"Did someone hurt you, then?"

She looked at him – her chocolate brown eyes piercing into his own muddy ones. He didn't know other people could look at him that way. Like they could read his soul. And then, she shrugged.

"Well…" Wes bit his lip. He only wanted to protect her, to make her feel safe and welcome. And happy. "Why are you so sad?"

She almost jumped at the question. "I'm sad," she eventually whispered, "because there is a boy here. His hair is as dark as the shadows, his eyes the shape of almonds. I can see him only at night… and in two days' time, he will be gone, and I will be gone, and I will never see him again."

Wes slid his arm down across her shoulders, down her arm, gripping her hand and lacing his fingers in hers. "I'm sad, too. Because there is a girl here that I love. She is as beautiful as the setting sun, and as tormented as the moon, always stretching for the Earth but never touching it. She doesn't know who I am… and in two days, all she will remain is a memory, a fading photograph."

She looked at him again, and he cursed inwardly… he didn't mean to sound so… poetic. Or creepy. And now she would never talk to him again. Then she raised their hands, watching the perfect fit… Looking anywhere but him, she opened her mouth. "What's her name?"

"I'll tell you hers, if you tell me his."

She nodded, and his pulse quickened. But one thing his life had taught him – to trust. "Count of three."

"Okay."

"One."

Breathe. Keep breathing. What was the worst that could happen? That she wouldn't love you? Why would she even love someone like you? Some gangly, nerdy sadsack like yourself. You're fooling yourself, Wes. Just like you've done your entire life. But camp's nearly over. She can't make fun of you for too long.

"Two."

Shit, his voice was about to break, wasn't it? Of all times… The poet in Wes supposed it was fitting, that it should happen as his heart prepared to crack in half.

"Three."

"Santana Lopez."

"Wes Montgomery."

There was a small moment of shocked silence, filled with crickets chirping and soft intakes of breath, and waves hugging and letting go rocks and sand in the distant. And then they both began to laugh – a little giggle first from Santana, that went straight to the pit of Wes' stomach and trilled around a C#, echoing in his ears. Then Wes snorted, a hand flying to his mouth, and before they knew what had happened, they were sitting over each other on the ground, dirt and tears of mirth painting their cheeks.

"Well, that's a relief," he whispered, the laughs having slowed to almost a hiccup-pace.

"So…" She rolled over to look at him, tears once again in her eyes. "What now?"

Wes looked at the younger girl in front of him. She was so… He couldn't quite use the word inexperienced. But she was… pure. Not that he wasn't, of course, but he himself was… perhaps a little more cynical than his age should allow. A little more worldly.

Pushing himself up onto one elbow, he stared deep into those black windows. "We enjoy the next two days to the best of our abilities."

"Can I…?" She bit her lip. "Can I kiss you?"

Wes just smiled and nodded. "I'd like that."

She inched closer and closer, never dropping his hand, always maintaining that flow of electricity through their skin… and ever so slowly, placed her soft lips against his cheek.

* * *

**I love them.**

**So… Yeah, Westana is definitely up there among my OTPs – and don't you **_**dare**_** mention crackship to me! But I wanted something more… natural. Natural in the sense that it was just them with no barriers. No smart-arse or snarky comments (because, believe me, I could write them til the cows come home!), no bitchiness, no gavels… Just them. And, what better way than with them so young?**

**So I'm imagining Wes around 15, and Santana 13. That really awkward phase. And Wes is most definitely going through a poetry phase :P**

**But, enough justification. I want to get the next prompt up.**

**So… like it? Hate it? Want me to adopt the Rabbit of Caebannog? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	3. nos is sumus

**Prompt: **Blaine can barely look at himself in the mirror. But what's behind the door shocks him to the core. From GleekMom. Accompanied by this image: pic . twitter hpUJ6Nwi

**Word count:** 543 (that's 500 with 10% leeway, right?**)**

**Characters: **Blaine and… you can decide who :P

* * *

The sound of rain, beating incessantly like the snare drums on a march to Hades. The wind, screaming past, bellowing the secrets once whispered to it, betraying the confidence of all who have ever spoken. A clap of thunder as the gods sat above, mocking, watching their pawns run around for shelter, to keep warm and dry, in a game they could never win. The surge of lightning, splitting the sky as it leers crookedly, laughing at the terror only a sharp crackle of electricity seems to be able to cause.

He hunched over the sink. Breathe. In and out. Nothing can harm you.

(_I can_.)

No, nothing around to harm you.

(_I am He._)

"SHUT UP!" Blaine screamed, forcing his eyes downcast. "You're not real!"

(_nos is sumus._)

"You cannot frighten me."

(_Oh, but I already have, my dear child._)

Blaine whipped around behind him. The frozen voice, right next to his ear, right in the edges of his peripheral vision… But just a whisper.

Perhaps it was simply the wind.

(_mille venti flantes sumus. We are the thousand winds that blow._)

"But, the wind cannot harm me."

The ceiling groaned, a particular strong blast spurting through, ripping and tearing and clawing at the house like the lion its prey. The house shook on its foundations, quivering, shivering in fear, in anticipation, in the knowledge of Blaine's secrets, of his past… of his future…

"_I know…_"

Blaine jumped as the whisper flew right above his hair. A chilling, high-pitched whisper, older than time itself, played on loop, skipping like a scratched record, over and over again, feeding off the fear of those who hear it.

"_I know who you are_…"

"_I know what you did…_"

"_I know what you will become…_"

"You don't know anything!"

Blaine glanced down at his fingers clenching around the basin – the only thing that he knew any longer was real. The rest of his supposed normalcy had disappeared, the storm and the house stealing away even the brush of the fingertips against his previous sanity.

The door flew off its hinges, very nearly hitting Blaine on the temple. He turned to watch a few flakes of snow flutter in, ice butterflies. Only these did not hold the usual innocence of the colourful, playful creatures. These played games born of spite and malice and pure evil.

(_adamantes fulgentes nivis sumus. We are the diamond glints on snow._)

"Who are you?"

He was met by only a thin cackle, seeming to rise from below his feet.

"Where are you?"

The children couldn't be below the ground…

(_ibi non sumus. nos non periimus. __We are not there. We did not die._)

"_You killed us._"

"I didn't kill anyone!"

"_Come play with us…_"

"No! I can't! I won't!"

"_Help us, Blaine… Help us…"_

"_Come play with us…"_

"_You killed us, Blaine…"_

"Where _are_ you?" He looked around frantically for the cries of pain, swirling and twirling like snowflakes in the gale… but saw nothing. Nothing but his reflection in the mirror.

"_Turn around…"_

Blaine whipped around to face the giggles from where the door had stood only moments ago… The last thing he ever saw, was a pair of dead, hazel eyes, and the yellow teeth of a jagged, mocking grin.

* * *

**Well… I'm a Stephen King fan, shall we say that? I thought I may as well have a little fun with this prompt… Though the scariest thing about this is probably the quality of the writing :P**

**But... I hope you enjoyed it anyway. And, yes, this is notably less rambly than normal.**

**Oh, and guess what? I MADE THE WORD LIMIT!**

**... And this is where I leave you. Much more writing to do!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my phone to turn into a sonic screwdriver and go haywire with my insulin pump? (because if I have the talent to stall a car while flooring the accelerator, pretty sure I can make the screwdriver malfunction :P) Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	4. Pressing Pause

**Prompt: He's at home, scared, terrified even, and just wishing that it would stop – from Different Child**

**Words: 500. Yep, count them yourself!**

* * *

A shriek shatters the air like ripples through time, building into waves and crashing and pulsing, reaching out, existing only as it hits another's ears, manifesting itself in the quickening of their pulse, of the drying of their mouths… of the shared fear, spreading itself around like swine flu.

And another, and then another, and Jeff finds himself wondering when the sound would end. When the swells would break and the tide would fall. When the screaming would stop eating his brain, and the fear stop eating his soul.

When his heart would stop pounding. When it would all just finally end.

But life doesn't have a pause button. And even if it did, Jeff can't bring himself to press it.

His heart keeps beating faster.

He hears the floor creaking above him… Slow, shuffling footsteps, like how Wes paces at night in his slippers when he can't sleep. It's distinctly lacking the two sounds of the toes and then the heel hitting the floor, and sounds old, frail… yet still ominous … It was Wes. It would have to be. Wouldn't it?

The uncertainty. He just doesn't _know_ any more. Logic tells him it's normal, that it's just people moving above him. _People_ moving around. But fear has a funny way of spiking into the brain, twisting sanity into irrationality.

There's movement behind him. It's subtle – but fear has heightened his senses. He's attuned to things that normally escape conscious thought. The secrets of the universe, the shifting of energy behind the door… the tainted air behind the couch… He shouldn't be able to tell it's there.

But he can.

He knows there's someone behind him.

But who?

"…Jeff?"

The blonde lets out a shrill scream, bowl of popcorn exploding, peppering them with unpopped kernels, and dives under his doona.

Nick smiles, taking another step towards his boyfriend and pausing the film on screen. "Jeff, sweetie, it's just me."

"Nicky?" The blanket shifts, and a tiny mop of blonde hair pokes above the edge… then a forehead, and then, finally, two darting eyes, shining in terror.

"Yeah. It's okay. You're safe." Nick places a kiss on Jeff's forehead, pushing the blanket back down so he can squeeze his hand and bring his body close behind, so that the heat can roll between them, the extreme contact area between them working to support Jeff, to reassure him that he is safe, that he isn't alone… Their shared breath, their spirits intertwining with the flow of oxygen and carbon dioxide between them, allowing the calmness to trickle down through his fingers into Jeff's hair, Jeff's chest, Jeff's soul.

"Don't leave me," Jeff whispers.

Nick hums, snaking an arm under him to pull him close, marvelling at just how _well_ their bodies seem to fit. "Babe, what were you _watching_?"

"Silent Hill…"

Nick snorts. "Jeff…"

"Don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere." He kisses him, on the lips this time. "You're safe with me. I promise. You'll always be safe with me."

* * *

**Hey, guys!**

**About time you got an update :-)**

**What have I been up to? Work, study, the usual... Also, I finished TSAB. *Cries***

**So... I'm writing more :P And... I have work. And am remaarkably less rambly when it's only 2230! :P**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be exorcised? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	5. In Another Life

**Prompt: The One That Got Away – from Melissa Motown**

**Word count: 1,135.. woops… I'm not good with word limits…**

**Also, it's a bit… I don't know. I think the Poe is getting to my head. It's not as disturbing as the master himself – I pulled back – but… eh. Read for yourself? There shall be fluff coming soon! I promise!**

* * *

It was a pity, really. She was so lovely. She had just the right firmness to her skin, but still so soft… She had the perfect nose. It would have been just the right thing to add to his collection. He had many conquests, men and women alike… but, that nose. That facial structure… it would have completed it. Completed everything. Completed… _him_…

Nobody ever got away. Ever. They say that we only ever hear of the second best criminals – because the best never got caught.

He was definitely one of the best.

He was always so… careful, so meticulous, in every aspect. He never lingered too long in one place. He never went to the same place more than once. He always invited the neighbours over for tea, made friends with the local sheriffs, stayed just the right amount of time after the next disappearance had been noted… and always a few suburbs from his location. Most often, they were just randoms – he had no MO. He couldn't _afford_ an MO – because predictable people are just that. Predictable. And predictable people got caught.

He wasn't crazy. He'd read plenty of Poe – _The Tell-tale Heart_ had been his favourite bedtime story growing up. It wasn't like he spent each new place plotting… plotting, plotting… just trying to work out how to get his new hit. He didn't plan. There was _no_ method to his madness.

It wasn't madness. He just… liked collecting.

He had eyeballs and tongues a-plenty. He had livers and stomachs galore. You want fingers? He's got twenty. But he didn't care… He wanted more.

No. He didn't want more, he decided. Not more as a title. Because, he coveted. And he coveted… her. He wanted her, all of her. To keep… forever.

But of course, he had to screw it up. There was a very good reason why he didn't let himself get close to anyone. Ever. Especially federal agents. Because, sooner or later, things would start taking on a meaning. Sooner or later, things would start to matter. Sooner or later, his past would start to catch up with him. And, sooner or later… people would start to notice…

Sebastian Smythe could still remember clearly the day he met Santana Lopez. The day he started questioning himself… again. She'd strolled into Scandals, of all places, a bottle of tequila tucked under one arm and a martini glass twirling between her fingers of the other hand. Such beautiful fingers, too, all manicured and straight, just the perfect amount of flesh on them… She'd come up, sat down next to him, told him that she had an hour to down the bottle before her father worked out where she'd gone…. and, henceforth, where the liquor had disappeared to. And, as only the power of liquid courage can incite, they'd sat on the roof and shared their lives with a stranger, planning to never see each other again.

Of course, that didn't work either. Things surrounding Santana _never_ went to plan.

… And Sebastian didn't have a plan. He never had a plan. Because making a plan would throw him over the threshold of insanity, and Sebastian most definitely was _not_ insane.

But she'd gone back. And he'd gone back. And, soon enough, they'd set up… something more than an acquaintance, less than a friendship. There was trust – plenty of it. But nothing else. No connection.

He thought he'd be safe… One 'friend' couldn't hurt, surely…

And then they'd gotten the tattoos. God knows why. Even when he was barely 18, he'd realised that having some defining feature such as a tattoo… well, he knew it wouldn't end well. But he'd had a rough week, and the vodka mingling with the cherry chapstick on her lips was just so damn enticing, and before he knew it, the alcohol and the goddess by his side had convinced him to get the dragon's ass on his left wrist, to match the head on her right.

God, that was a good night.

Only, then he'd gone and nearly blinded Blaine, started his life of crime, and started running.

He never meant to hurt anyone. Not really. He just… wanted to protect them, as clichéd as that sounded. He wanted to preserve them, preserve their beauty. If Sebastian saw something he wanted, he had to get it. And get it, he would.

And once he was done with the bodies, satisfying himself and taking only the parts he felt were lacking in his life… he'd move. He'd run. Leave them and run. But not before a bath in bleach… just to remove any trace. There could be no traces. Nobody ever got away… and he never left anything suspicious in his wake.

And so, his collection grew. He started, at first, with the eyes. A reminder of what got him into this… a reminder of the guilt he could never shake, of his family looking down on him from up above. Then he'd moved to other parts. A heart to replace his own shrunken pit, a finger to represent the outpouring of anger, a foot to give him the illusion of stability that he always ran for…

He never got caught. He was one of the best.

Until Santana Lopez had marched back into his life.

He'd slipped. It was so… small. The nerves he could put down to meeting quite possibly the only female crush he'd had in his life. It was nothing to do with the pretty blonde stuffed in his basement, just a few feet under where they were sharing coffee. Nothing to do with the fact that Santana Lopez, now a federal agent, was now enquiring as to said blondie. Nothing to do with the years of guilt and hurt and anger, bubbling _so damn close_ to the surface, about to erupt. Nothing to do with the intuitive knowledge of the few strands of his life he held splitting and ripping and fraying like he'd taken his scalpel collection to them.

… Maybe he wanted to get caught.

It would have been so easy to do it. So easy. In another life, he would have done it. Just a slip of the hand and a dose of arsenic in the latte they'd shared for old-times' sake. A stumble in the kitchen, and a knife under the ribs. Hell, even a dose of the industrial-strength sleeping tablets mistaken as ibuprofen and he could have completely preserved the scene. In another life, she would have been his. He would have been safe.

Instead, he let her get away.

The one that got away.

The only one.

And now Sebastian sat in his armchair, a large hazelnut mocha in a takeaway cup resting gently in his too-steady hand, waiting. Waiting for his future. For his arrest.

Unless the arsenic got to him first.

* * *

**Running to work. As per usual.**

**I'm sorry for this. I don't know... why my mind is being so strange. But... there you go. Have some murderous rage :P**

**I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER IS HAPPY! It is planned. And 350 words down... so WAY over the limit, as always.**

**Like me? Hate me? Want me to choke on a sago pearl? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	6. Out of the Closet

**Prompt: **Most memorable moment with your best friend – from StarGleekBelle

**Words: **924.

**Characters:** No one says friendship better than Wevid!

* * *

"Wes?! Are you okay?"

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"What day is it?"

"What's your name?"

Wes groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head… So _that_ was the reason the council had outlawed back-flips. If only that stupid chair hadn't gotten in the way… His feet nearly hit the floor on their way back around…

"Wes, mate, talk to us…"

He frowned at Jeff's swimming face, the blond hair and brown eyes and surprisingly tanned skin blurring together as his world spun. "Ow…" Oh, and his head. His head really hurt. He wasn't entirely sure he could still sit up…

"Wes, do you know what day it is?"

Jeff was still persisting… somewhere in the pea-soup fog he registered he was trying to assess his conscious state. And that he had to answer. "Friday. It's Friday. Gotta get down on Friday."

"Yeah, we're all looking forward to the weekend. Don't sing it." He felt David kneeling down beside him, brushing some of his hair back, and he almost managed a chuckle… though the increased pressure to his head just made the whole I'm-on-a-trampoline-on- top-of-Mt-Everest thing even worse.

"_It's not Friday though_," someone whispered… Trent? "_Does he have amnesia or something?_"

"No, I… I can remember… I think…" Wes frowned again, raising a hand to his forehead. "I don't… I don't know…"

There was a sigh behind him, and the sound of a phone call… Jeff would be calling the ambulance. But who was sighing?

"What do you remember? Or, what don't you remember?"

He wanted to laugh again. But running through his mind was just so… painful… "Too much," he grunted.

"Well…" David actually chuckled this time. "We'll shoot smaller. Do you remember that time the Warblers were convinced we were gay… and what we all did?"

Wes managed a tiny smile, though his breathing was now ragged in pain. "When we… we… We did something stupid. And they did something stupid. And we all lived happily ever after," he concluded weakly… because he had no idea.

David sighed again. "You don't remember."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no apologising," David told him firmly. "Jeff? Add amnesia to that list of symptoms." Then he rolled himself down, putting Wes' hand around his to squeeze out the pain… then began in a quiet voice to recount the scene he thought both of them could never forget.

* * *

"_Goddammit! This is just getting ridiculous!" David huffed, giving the door a final kick._

"_Yeah… the closet trick didn't work the first four times they did it. I doubt letting us 'out of the closet' a fifth time is going to make us realise our extreme sexual tension and undying love towards each other." He saw a flash as Wes grinned, though it was too dark in the locked cupboard to really make out any detail. But then Wes' voice dropped a bit. "How are you doing, anyway? You okay?"_

_He couldn't help but smile a little. Locking him in a cupboard was… mean. And the first few times, the only thing that had stopped a full-on panic attack was the fact that Wes was in there, and Wes was the next reincarnation of the Dalai Lama. "I'm okay," he reassured him. If nothing else, at least the Warblers' unmovable determination to force them together (_and where do you think they got the ideas for Operation Klaine and Operation Niff? Cupboards weren't exactly the most original ideas in the history of the planet._) was helping him let go of his claustrophobia._

"_I wonder how long they'll leave us today…"_

"_I wonder how we can get them to _stop_." He squeezed his eyes shut again. Sure, pitch-blackness would suggest he couldn't see anything… but only with his eyes closed could he pretend that the walls and ceiling weren't shrinking around him._

_There was a banging suddenly… Wes was pounding on the door. "Hey! Guys, I need some help in here…" Then he crossed over to David, grabbing onto his hand. "Hang in there. James is out there somewhere… he knows… he'll let us out…"_

_David, though, was focusing on Wes' hand around his. Sure, it was great for anchoring him. But… "Wes? I think I know how we can end this…"_

_Wes chuckled. "You read my mind."_

_As footsteps just started to creep into their ears, they moved closer together. As the doorknob began to rattle, Wes put a hand on David's face, forcing his head closer and trying desperately not to burst into laughter. Then, as the door finally swung open, he moved… their lips met…_

"_Callum! You owe me 10 bucks!" Dylan called out as they wrenched apart._

_David sprang up and ran into the light… while Wes spat and rubbed furiously at his mouth._

_Callum laughed at the two of them. "Actually… I think _you_ owe _me_. I _told_ you they were both straight!"_

_David could have kissed him. _

"_I think we're both out the closet now," Wes said wryly. "So can we stop torturing my best friend?"_

_Dylan stared at them. "You know what? I think I've been scarred enough for a lifetime. If you promise _never_ to do that again, I'll see what I can do about that cupboard."_

* * *

"That's horrible!" Thad exclaimed.

But Jeff and Nick just shared a look, laughing. "You guys actually kissed?"

"Yes," Wes said, his teeth still gritted. "But, David, can we focus on something… less mentally scarring?"

"And you don't even remember that." David sighed. "Alright. Why don't we tell everyone that time the raccoon got in the copier?"

* * *

**Oh. Dear.**

**Horrible horrible writing. This just… needed to be done and put to the side. Don't hate me too much for it!**

**I just realised, I forgot to do all my thanking! So shout-outs to: Different Child, WhatKatyDidNext, PenMagic, Melissa Motown, GleekMom and ForeverGleek2000.**

**Also…. Warblers are totally coming back! HOMG CANNOT WAIT.**

**And, Telly totally has an album. Which I bought. It's coming to me on the 16****th**** – meaning I now have 9 days left to live. And you should all go buy it, because, Telly :P**

**Okay. And, onwards!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be coated in sugar and put into a Nerd Rope? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	7. Tissues, Tea, Honey and Evidence

**Prompt:** The first three words must be, "The first time". From momaboutown.

**Words: **713... Noooooooooooooooooo. So close. But, I fail at word limits :P

* * *

The first time Wes sneezed, he paid no attention.

The second and third were only to be expected, because Wes was just one of those people who found it impossible to sneeze once. It was always three, no more, no less. Three was the number of sneezes, and the number of sneezes was three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three.

… _Screw Jeff and his Monty Python marathon_…

But, by the fifth set of three in half an hour, Wes' head was filled with cotton, and he was contemplating stuffing anything he could grab into his nose to get it to stop… tissues, marshmallows, his gavels…

Okay, perhaps not his gavels. But with the pounding in his head and the razor blades sliding down his throat whenever he swallowed… well, it's safe to say that he wasn't exactly feeling 100 percent.

Not that he'd let that stop him. And so, Wes found himself at 3:15 not, as he would have preferred, tucked up in bed, but instead staring glassy-eyed at the Warblers from his position at the centre of the desk. Thank God they were only meeting to discuss the setlist for sectionals – he was fairly sure that his vocal cords had acquired scalpels and were trying to cut themselves to freedom whenever he spoke. Singing – a proper rehearsal – even in head voice the entire time, would probably have killed him.

"_Heh-kissh-kishh'oo! … Heh'kissh'oo!_"

"Bless you, Wes!" A few of the choir called out to him as he finally started admitting defeat, and buried his nose in another tissue.

David shot him a look, eyes clouded with concern. "Wes… we can take it from here. We _need_ you healthy. Go get some sleep!"

"I'mb ndot sick," he protested, cringing at the magnified congestion colouring his nasals. But, of course, while he could lie through his teeth, his body said otherwise, and he was forced to bend over as he fell into a harsh coughing fit.

"Yes, because normal, healthy individuals enjoy hacking up a lung or three." David's hand was on his back, rubbing soft little circles, helping him get his breathing back under control.

_Fantastic_.

"Ndo, I'mb finde," he tried again. "Let's just get this over with."

In other situations, he might have seen the lightbulb flash over David's head. But for now, all he could bring himself to think about getting up to bed… _stat_. And so, when David interrupted him with a raised hand, he was surprised, annoyed… and grateful for the temporary respite his hoarse voice would get.

"What is it, David?"

"My apologies, council leader Montgomery, but I have a motion to be put forward."

Wes sighed, setting back in his chair. "Go ahead."

"I propose to the board," his friend said, standing up, "that Wes Montgomery be trialled for illness. Does anyone have any evidence they can lend to the case?"

_At least they could joke about it_.

Thad raised a hand, reaching out for him, his fingers _freezing_ where they made contact with his forehead. "Mild fever."

Callum stood up. "Falling asleep in Legal Studies this morning."

"I'd be mbore worried if I were _awake_ ind Legal, Callumb," Wes tried to joke, not wanting their theatrics to get out of hand… before he felt his face slackening and another set of three sneezes burst from his nose. _Damn_…

Jeff raised a hand, grinning a little. "Sounding like the dying offspring of a seagull and a seal."

Wes cleared his throat. There was no way he was going to win this time. "Okay. Finde. Mbaybe I amb a _little_ sick…"

"What's that? A confession?" David grabbed a spare gavel from the desk, before jumping on top of it, swinging his arms wildly. "Upon viewing the recent evidence, I find you, Wes Montgomery, _guilty_ of the crime of being infected with rhinovirus. I hereby sentence you to rest until you have returned to complete health." He jumped back down, reassuming his place behind the desk. "Case closed, board dismissed." With a bang of Elizabeth against the soundboard, he sent the laughing Warblers away before turning back and putting his arms around Wes' shoulders. "Now, let's get you wrapped up in a quilt with tissues, tea and honey."

* * *

**Because Wes is an idiot, and the Warblers would totally have to joke around to get him to look after himself. And because I think literally everyone I know is sick currently. Le sigh.**

**Oh, and hayfever, which is driving EVERYONE - myself included - nuts. So let's just think of this as me taking out all that angst on him.**

**Also because vulnerable!Wes is something special.**

**... Stop talking, Steph.**

**Okay. Like it? Hate it? Want Wes to put his gavels onto me? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	8. The Persecuted and the Punished

**Prompt:** Tragedy strikes and someone unexpected helps out – from GleekMom.

**Words:** 1,056. Dammit! The next one… probably won't be under word limit either. Week 10. COME YELL AT ME IF IT ISN'T

**Notes:** My usual TSAB universe stands for this – with the exception of time. Because I say so. Also, because I feel like I can achieve this better if I now make it set… 12 years ago? Let's say, the major characters are juniors now in 2001. Also, Wes' history – he's at school, which is the major change, but if you want the original, it's referenced in the last few chapters of TSAB and the second chapter of Five Times Wes Helped the Warblers – which I consider to be one of my better pieces written (NOT the first chapter though!).

I'm also going to suggest that the London and Bali bombings happened before this, because I need some of that prejudice and hate to already exist.

But, I don't like pre-amble, so onwards!

* * *

He closed his eyes, but it couldn't block out the screams.

The mind was such a powerful tool… Here he was sitting, knowing he was tucked safely on the couch surrounded by his friends – all of whom were just as shocked – and it closed around him, like a solid box of sensory malevolence, stifling and freezing around him like a cryogenic vat.

Screaming. Everywhere. In his mind. On the television. Downtown, just a few states over…

And the smoke filling his eyes, and the burning, and the falling bodies and bricks and the smell of sheer hopelessness and shock and horror.

The pounding of his heart in his chest, spiking adrenaline throughout his body.

At least if he closed his eyes, he couldn't see the defenestrations. The rubble where the towers once stood. How New York had just stopped dead.

The pain in everyone's eyes. Wes and Nick pacing in the corner, on hold on the phone and looking even more full of loss and uncertainty than anyone else.

How could someone do that? What could possibly possess someone to overtake a plane, to drive it into one of the strongest structures, from the strongest city in the world? Words were already being thrown around… speculations of terrorist attacks, of… a planned attack. All those people, dead, or presumed dead. The world – the economy – stopping. The death of hope itself. All because some jackass decided to take a plane.

He knew he should feel something. But, now, he couldn't. He just sat there, pretending to watch the TV, Trent's hand rubbing up and down his back, Nick crying in the corner with Jeff's arms around him…

"We've just received intelligence, that the planes were United Airlines flights 11 and 175, both on route from Boston to Los Angeles, adding further evidence to the theory they were hijacked."

At the reporter's words, Wes made a noise deep in his throat. "That was my parents' flight," he said, sinking to the ground. "They… My parents are dead." He raised a shaking hand to his head… then, with a strangled sob and a retch, ran out the door.

And there they stayed all day. Classes for the day were cancelled, and they sat, transfixed, learning more as the day progressed. How a transmission was received, how the plane was captured. Words were thrown around – al-Quaeda, Muslims, numbers, uncertainty… Food was placed in front of them but left untouched. Boys came and went, comforting each other in virtual silence.

Until…

"Thad?" James looked over at him as they switched the channel on the television. "What do you think about all this?"

Wes' eyes locked into his.

"I mean… you're Muslim, aren't you? Explain it, then. How can your religion permit something like that?"

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut and slapped in the face at the same time. He was dumbfounded. Hadn't they been through this already? His religion was not one full of hate. He thought they were over it, that after the Bali bombings, people just… accepted it, maybe learned a little and moved on. Of course he was wrong.

But it was Wes that spoke, his first words since realising the death of his family, his eyes finally showing some emotion, burning with fury. "The people that hijacked the planes were _not_ Muslim, so don't you dare align Thad's own beliefs with them. Those people… were madmen, that want to use their own misinterpretation of a thousand-year-old book to justify their own sick beliefs."

Thad nodded. "Islam preaches _peace_. _Salema_, means peace. Do _not_ align terrorism with Islam – it just helps them on their quest to martyrdom."

"But, the Qu'ran teaches…"

Wes glared over. "Have you ever read the Bible? Have you ever sworn at or disobeyed your parents? Cheated on anyone? Ever said, 'oh my God'? Done work on a Sunday? Because the Bible says we should kill you if you have. Just because a Book is outdated, does not mean the religion preaches every single aspect."

"Wes, you just lost your parents. How can you be justifying what they did? How can you stick up for them?"

"James, listen to yourself. I'm not defending what happened – I'm defending Thad, because he's been through enough already and you are _not_ to make him a scapegoat. Stop looking for someone or something to blame. It will only cause more pain later on."

Then Wes stood up, gripping onto Thad's shoulder and pulling him upstairs, to his room. Where only the most privileged or most in-need were invited. Where everything was Wes – that cool, serene, caring atmosphere that just seemed to follow the senior into any room he entered. Like time outside had stopped – and inside you were given permission to be who you were, to feel what you were, to live right in that very moment. To be safe.

"Thanks," Thad whispered, as the door closed behind them. "You didn't have to do that."

Wes smiled sadly. "He doesn't mean it."

"I know… I just thought we were over this all. But…" He sat down, staring at the emptiness behind Wes' usually vibrant eyes. "You lost everything. If anyone's going to blame me, you have the most right. But… you stood up for me."

"I just lost my parents. My family." Wes' voice cracked, a tear rolling down his cheek. "But, I haven't lost myself. Muslim is just what those people – if we can even grace them with that title – chose to name themselves – it's not what they are. A terrorist attack is a terrorist attack. You had _nothing_ to do with it… I just wish everyone could see that."

"Me too," Thad choked out, before letting his own tears finally fall. "Me too."

"Would you stay with me tonight?" Wes asked quietly. "I don't think I can stand the vacuum of being alone… and I think, Thad, that you'll be the best comfort to me… and hopefully I can help you too."

"Of course," he nodded. "Thank you."

Wes sat next to him, and for a moment they both just cried together, sharing their anguish, letting just a taste of that bottled emotion seep through the crack. The Muslim and the victim. The persecuted and the punished. Two completely different sides of the world – united in their quest for their own internal peace.

* * *

**Ahhhhh not too sure about my ending there…**

**Okay, so, whenever I think of tragedy, this still is what sticks out to me in my mind. Deaths happen every single day, and each, for whatever cause, will stop someone. But, life just moves on – and as it should. But the September 11 attacks… well, I was 10 and I can still remember the day that New York stood still. And not just New York – the entire world alike was united in the horror of it all. The impact of that was absolutely huge – and so I wanted to… try to explore various aspects a little. I'd **_**love**_** to detail Thad a little more… but that will come.**

**Now, I wasn't there in the attacks, and I didn't know the family that I have in New York at that point. But I've seen what's there now. And I also know what it's like to lose someone – even in circumstances as horrible as that. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I'm around. I won't claim to know exactly what you're going through – but I'll do my very best to relate to you. Whatever it is – you don't have to go through it alone. You can always PM me, or hit up my Ask, over on pi-on-a-skateboard. tumblr. com**

**And… yes, Thad is Muslim. I think I've hinted it once or twice, but not really written a whole lot… I do have things planned for him though, so look out for that! One of my best friends is Muslim, and, well, as an outsider it's just such a fascinating religion. And it actually is really peaceful – Abid does remind me a little of Wes. Or, maybe more correctly worded, Wes is partially based on Abid. And Thad, as he's coming up to be, even moreso.**

… **And there I go rambling.**

**I've gotta go run to meet my Grandad, who's taking me for a drive. VicRoads SERIOUSLY screwed me over, but I should be getting a licence fairly soon! :D**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my uncle's full bottle of Head and Shoulders to develop a mind of its own and fling itself into my eyes in the shower? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	9. Running on Borrowed Spoons

**Prompt:** From Different Child this week – to utilise the Spoon Theory.

**Words:** 1,420 – and, yeah, I did warn you I'd go over in this one…

Hopefully I've explained this well enough in my piece, but if you're after the original essay – which I highly recommend you read – you can find it at www. butyoudontlooksick articles/ written-by-christine/ the-spoon-theory/ It was invented to explain what life was like having _lupus erythematosis_, but it does extend to a whole heap of chronic illnesses of all kinds.

What I wanted to show from this, though, as well as how great a metaphor this is, how it can help explain what it's like being sick to people – was the relief that it can bring. Because, trust me, having a chronic illness, especially invisible ones like lupus, RA, diabetes, depression… it's so isolating. You _know_ there are others out there going through it. But, having something like this, using "I'm low on spoons" and having people _understand_ what you mean… is actually really comforting. I can say to people I'm low on spoons and they know I'm going to be in a terrible mood because all I feel I can do is sleep (yeah, I'm horrible in terms of the borrowing spoons thing…) – without having to admit to overworking myself/being depressed/being sick.

Having some sort of secret language – you almost feel like you're part of something special. Your disease makes you special – rather than just diseased. It's more inclusive, less isolating.

… I'm rambling a little. But, honestly, this theory is such an amazing metaphor, and I urge you to both read it and show it to anyone you know that might appreciate it. Being sick is _hard_. So much harder than we'll let you know. But maybe, just maybe, you can begin to understand what it's like.

Oh, and I should say that, you're again in TSAB-verse. And, Nick's story is _being_ written… slowly… but it's definitely related to Let Him Eat Cake :P … And, yep, totally unashamedly whoring myself out here. Le sigh.

* * *

Nick never knew very much when he was just waking up. It took him awhile for awareness to flood into his body, to hear the blood pulsing through his limbs and the smell the soft cotton of his sheets and feel the gentle, light weight of the goose-down quilt wrapped over him, warming his sleep-frozen body.

Today was different. He may not have known what day it was – what time it was – who was in the room for him. But rather than the his system just slowly starting to warm up, easing him into consciousness, today it was his legs curling into a tight ball around his cramping stomach that ripped him from his previous dreamless sleep. Today – he knew one thing. Pain.

"Hey, easy now." Someone had started as he'd sat up… and was rubbing his back. "You okay?"

Nick groaned again. "Where's Jeff?"

A sigh, and hazel eyes with gold flecks met his own. "He's out 'kicking the footy'," Blaine told him. "He just… he's so worried about you and he's just bottling _everything_ up, so I made Wes go out with him."

"Well, that's… that's… tha…" Nick yawned. "Good. I don't want to force him through that… I don't want him to feel bad."

Blaine frowned, obviously thinking over his comment – and he knew that _Blaine_ knew that his words often held other subtle meanings. But any questions brewing behind those hazel eyes were pushed to the side as Blaine's hand slowly came to rest on his shoulder, his friend sitting down beside him on the bed. "How are you feeling today?"

There was such care and compassion in his tone… It was largely due to his extreme fatigue, but Nick honestly wanted to cry. Should he tell Blaine what it was like? Or just shrug everything off with the usual, _could be better, could be worse_ thing? "I'm… not good," he finally settled on, letting the sophomore draw his own conclusions.

And, draw his own conclusions Blaine did… though not quite what Nick was expecting. "You're running low on spoons today?"

Nick blinked at him.

Blaine stared back… then smiled. "I take it you don't know the spoon theory, then?"

Oh. He really _was_ talking about spoons. This must be a seriously strange dream…

"Basically," he continued, "it explains what it's like living with a chronic illness. Like lupus. Or asthma. Or diabetes," he shrugged. "Or Coeliac too, I suppose," he nodded at Nick. "How many spoons would you have at home?"

"Maybe 20…?"

"Alright," Blaine smiled. "Now, every spoon you have represents a certain amount of energy expenditure… actually… let's use tissues," he added, plucking twenty from the box on the bedside table, "to represent your spoons at home – and the spoons you've woken up with this morning. Got it?"

Spoons, tissues… He hoped this wasn't meant to make any sense…

"So, every activity you do will burn through a certain amount of tissues. Before you got sick – what would you do in a normal day?"

"I'd… get up, go and wake Jeff up, go to class…"

"Whoa," Blaine held up a hand. "Easy, tiger. You don't just _get up_ in the morning. Not unless you go to class in your pyjamas."

Nick snorted. "Okay. I get out of bed, make it, shower, get changed, brush my teeth… What are you doing?"

As he'd been speaking, Blaine was busy ripping some of his tissues to shreds. "Every activity costs you certain amounts of spoons. Making your bed costs you one, getting up is another, making yourself presentable… It's all costing you."

He was now down to fifteen tissues.

"What next?"

"I… go meet Jeff and we go eat breakfast."

Another three tissues were ripped to pieces – "I'm taking more because eating takes your body more energy than most," Blaine explained. "Continue."

"Then… class all day," Nick thought.

"Do you pay attention? Do you sleep?"

"Both," Nick admitted.

"Well…" Blaine ripped up 8 more tissues. "I'm taking two for lunch, and one for each period."

So, he had 4 left to continue his day. Dinner was likely to take three… and homework… and mucking around with his friends… and rehearsal…

Blaine seemed to catch the look in Nick's eye, and pulled another small box of tissues over. "Yeah, you don't have much left. But, one thing you can do to help you get through is to 'borrow' from tomorrow's spoons." He plucked out one tissue from the new box. "So, now you have five left to finish your day."

Nick sighed. "Well… I'll go to rehearsal, but I'll sit on the couch – I won't dance, but I can still sing, because that doesn't take much."

Two tissues down.

"Then I'll have an early dinner, so I can get everything done."

Three tissues.

"Um… I suppose I'll get changed, then brush my teeth and go to sleep."

Blaine sighed, pulling another one out of tomorrow's box. Obviously he'd done something wrong…

But Nick still felt an element of pride. "Hey, I made it through a day!"

Blaine nodded, smiling a little sadly. "True. But you barely managed that – and this is without doing homework. Or dancing. Or talking to any of us. And, what's more – what's happened to tomorrow's tissue box?"

"There's two missing?"

Blaine nodded again. "Right. And, the thing is, you don't know how many tissues are in tomorrow's box. You don't know if tomorrow you're going to get another cold, if you're going to have a pop quiz, if they're making spaghetti for dinner rather than rice. You can build up borrowed spoons – but it's always going to bite you on the bum later."

Huh. That was… interesting. "Is that why I've been so sick, then? Because I'm running on borrowed spoons?"

"Quite possibly. I mean… you are sick," Blaine looked thoughtful. "But, trying to do everything you used to, you would have been accruing so many spoons – I can imagine at some time that your body just… had to do something drastic to get you to stop."

"You… you mean… it's not all just in my head?"

"What's not just in your head?"

Nick sighed, finally able to express some of those thoughts. "The… everything. I mean… I can't do _anything_ at the moment. I just… have no energy and all I really can do is sleep. And I just… I've been thinking, you know, what it is that's wrong with me, what my mind has against me… Why telling myself otherwise just doesn't work."

Blaine nodded.

"There's… there's actually something wrong with me," Nick seemed to realise.

"You're _sick_," Blaine simply said. "And letting yourself be sick might help you. There's nothing _wrong_ with you, _mentally_. It's just that gluten is – "

"Is taking all my spoons."

"That's right," Blaine said. "When you're healthy again, I'll imagine you'll be more like me – I barely think about them. Unless I'm getting sick, or my sugar levels are rollercoastering. I'm lucky, because I tend to wake up with a lot more than, say, someone with rheumatoid arthritis. But, someone like Jeff can just bounce out of bed in the morning without a care in the world, because unless something _drastic_ happens, he's always going to have the spoons to last him through the day."

Huh. So, that was why _Blaine_ understood what he was going through. He'd always put it down to just that he knew what it was to be sick… but there was some visual, some secret language… like a society…

"And, in the meantime… let yourself rest and wash your spoons. But maybe, when you get more…"

"I can use them more effectively…"

"Exactly."

Nick yawned again, rubbing his stomach as Blaine plucked all the bits of tissue from his covers. He… actually felt somewhat better. Somewhat more hopeful. Because… other people were out there, going through similar things. He knew before that there were, but he hadn't really believed it until now. And… he could get better, too. He could wash all his spoons. He could get the energy to do his homework, to chase Jeff around the oval – hell, even to stay awake in class again.

"Thank you," he said, burrowing back down, his eyes fluttering shut. "I think talking to you has made me feel better than I have in a month."

Blaine squeezed his shoulder. "Anytime. Go to sleep, and I'll get some of your spoons cleaned up for you."

"No, I don't want soup…" he mumbled, finally letting his body – and mind – fall a little easier.

* * *

**So, I think it's been a little while, but I'm here to _urge_ you all to check out the other girl's works here too - GleekMom, momaboutown, Different Child, StarGleekBelle, and Melissa Motown - who so kindly have let me steal their prompts. I'm nearly caught up now!**

**I'm definitely in Blaine's position, in terms of my own spoons. I was explaining the theory to some friends the other day, and they got really concerned when they ended their day on no spoons. They were thinking, what about physical exercise, seeing friends, etc etc. So, most of the time I do have more spoons - they're definitely numbered, and I'm more aware of them, but there are so many people out there who have so fewer than myself. So, I'm very lucky in that respect :-)**

**I really don't have much to ramble about at the moment... I'm going for my drivers test in 3 weeks (and, my God, _what_ a saga that was!), I have 3 weeks of uni (and 2 of exams), I've been working at my house in Clayton (I work there every Thursday, and I've been doing 2 or 3 shifts there a week), my wrist is... behaving itself today... So, life's pretty sweet :P**

**... I'm interested though. As my thoughts flicker around :P How many of you guys out there can relate the spoon theory to your lives?**

**Oh, and if you have any questions, I'm an open book :-)**

**Shout outs to PenMagic and Eraman!**

**Okay. I should run away. And sleep. :P**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to shrivel up and slowly fold inwards into my tongue, because of the number of Atomic Warheads I've been eating? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	10. My Own Worst Enemy

**Prompt:** 'God only knows what we're fighting for', from Melissa Motown

**Characters:** Wes, David and your dear selves :D

**Words: **698

* * *

They say we all have our demons. Sometimes they are painfully obvious – the ones that sit, looming over our right shoulder, advising eating nothing but chocolate for breakfast or to steal Wes' gavel or to blow up the House of Parliament. Others are more subtle, like tiny parasites, worming their way through your ear, into your brain, where they can control every motion of your life, every mundane task, switching it so that where once you saw green and red now you see blue and orange. Some exist as bright and bold as the Hollywood sign, right on our foreheads. Others remain like tiny water balloons hidden on the underside of an umbrella, so no matter the day, whenever it gets opened, you always end up wet. And, everybody has them. After all, life is really about holding onto the reigns and pushing and pulling, giving off to everyone that tiny glimmer of hope, that illusion that we truly are in control. Masters of our own destiny.

"_NO! You're _wrong_!"_

Wesley Montgomery is the prime example of this. God knows, the kid simply _exudes _the façade of control. A perfectionist, bordering on OCD, straight A's, house prefect and debating captain and head of the Warblers, mentor to virtually anyone who's ever come into contact with him… The world is in the palm of his hands. He is the master puppeteer. He can have anything and everything he puts his mind to.

"_For God's sake, are you actually blind? How can you not…? Just…"_

But, if anyone knows a thing about demons, it's him. Losing his parents the way he did… coming to Dalton when he did… It all shaped him. It made him into the person he is today. It taught him how to hold your head up high. How to expect the absolute best of yourself and of those around you – but how to forgive, how to love, how to care and nurture.

"_Stop. Just stop."_

We digress.

"_Listen to yourself._"

The point of this massive preamble, is merely to say that… well, sometimes, no matter how well we can cover our demons, eventually they will decide to burst free, like the Titans in Hercules. Demons aren't meant to be kept in forever. It's like they absorb the energy, the pressure, from the container you trap them in. And, whenever they surface, all that time hidden gives them more time to think. To plot. It's always going to hit you harder.

"_How can you possibly believe that?"_

Wes still hasn't… quite mastered this idea yet.

"_You're an idiot._"

How a demon manifests itself will vary from person to person. It can be turned inwards, twisted and molded into a self-hatred so deep the very core begins to waste. It can turn outwards, making it impossible to trust ever again. It can cause a person to grow miles before their years, or can cause them to remain forever a child.

"_You have no right to speak to me that way!"_

Wes has a combination of an almost pathetic immaturity, combined with a near-pathological volatility.

"_I don't… I can't… How do you expect me to discuss properly with you when you're like this?"_

"_Wes, the only one childish here is you. If you could only listen…"_

"_I was born to listen. You are the one blind."_

"_We're arguing semantics."_

"_You're right. God only knows what we're fighting for."_

"_Mean Girls really is just as quotable as Anchorman…"_

"_Matt Bomer really is just as attractive as Jensen Ackles."_

"_And this, Wes, is why people think you're gay."_

"_Yeah, the fact I'm currently talking to a gavel has _nothing_ to do with that."_

David smiles as he peers through the window. His best friend has obviously calmed from his little psychotic break, and now is lying on the floor, Elizabeth – with whom he'd obviously been arguing – clutched in his arms.

"Excuse me," he says, pushing open the door. "It's time for me to push away my demons, and help look after Wes'." He winks, then disappears into the room, the door closing with a sharp snap… and us left to consider just how stable or fragmentable the human mind can be…

* * *

**Believe it or not, when I started this I intended it to be humorous... (hehehehe ANATOMY) and... instead you get this. Which was interesting... I'm still not sure on the flow, but, damn, I need to write more. And these prompts are just wonderful. And, I'm done with uni! So I'll actually have a little mre time to write now. So, catching up on this is fairly high up on my to-do list!**

**Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read this! And, shout-outs to Pen Magic, Carbon65, perfectlyODD and the guest! And, to my lovely guest - it has been noted and shall be done! Next on my list of things to write :-)**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to ingest copious amounts of earwax? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	11. False Evidence Appearing Real

**Prompt:** A moment of weakness, from StarGleekBelle

**Characters: **I had to use Sebastian… I'm sorry…

**Words: **699. WOOHOO!

* * *

He didn't get it. Stuff like this didn't happen to him. It wasn't meant to happen to him. Damn it, he was above this.

Sure, it made sense as a five year old. Hell, he'd been afraid of Santa when he was five, and no one had questioned it. As a five year old, they'd freaking _congratulated_ him, on his distrust of strangers and rejection of symbolisms of capitalism or whatever other crap his hippie mother and her friends could come up with.

No wonder he was gay. He was brought up to reject a heteronormative society.

But… damn. This wasn't… _rational_.

It was a carnival. Supposedly a fun place. Full of screaming and puking kids, mirror mazes that could make even Chuck Norris claustrophobic, and creaking rides that threatened to plummet to the ground and shoot you into the air whilst breaking the sound barrier_ at the same time_.

He supposed he'd been on edge walking into the place…

Not that it was so obvious. Trent knew – Trent just somehow knew everything about every_one_ (_that's why his hair's so big – it's full of secrets_) but rather than gossip, he'd take you out for coffee.

He was a great kid, actually…

But, anyway. He'd walked into the fair, perhaps a little shakily… Trent had looked over at him, kept an eye on him… He had a nasty feeling there'd been some hand-squeezing involved, too.

He held it together, though. He'd walked in, his head held high. He'd helped Thad clean himself up after The Big Dipper (and, dear God, he was _never_ allowed ice cream again. Or on any rides. Or any form of transportation exceeding 30 miles an hour. Ever.) He'd waited at the bottom of The Giant Drop with open arms for a trembling Trent to collapse into, crying as he burrowed himself into his neck. He'd smiled at small children, made baby noises at animals, and even bought a tub of, as Jeff rather ironically pronounced it, 'fairy floss' for ever Warbler.

But then…

"Hey, let's go check out the shows!" David had shouted. "There's animals, there's a magic show… There's even clowns!"

Seb had grimaced. Probably even blanched. He looked around at him… Trent was still sniffling, though at least he could walk unsupported. Thad had eaten, but still looked an awful shade of white. Jeff was hobbling around on one leg (how he'd managed to make it 3 years jumping on furniture without spraining an ankle before, Seb would never understand), Nick was complaining about his feet, and Brett was just plain old complaining. So… he swallowed. "Yeah, I think we could do with sitting for a while."

His voice must have shook. "Are you okay?" Trent suddenly asked.

_No._ "Yeah. Why? Should I not be? What's there to be afraid of?"

He was rambling… and wow, he hadn't realised that his pitch could get that high… but Trent just gave him a look. "Anything you want to tell us?"

"No!" He squeaked… God, this was like being back in middle school. He cleared his throat, fighting to gain control over his vocal cords again. "No. Nothing. Let's go."

They'd set off. He'd held it together. Until David pulled back the curtains and he'd ushered everyone into the stadium.

There was one behind him. He could feel it. Hot, warm breath on the back of his neck, the one you could just _tell_ came from an unnatural smile… and then the maniacal laughter.

A clown.

His knees buckled.

"Sebastian!"

Trent's arms were suddenly underneath his, keeping him upright.

"Dude, you okay?"

He whimpered, fist clenching around Trent's shirt as the clown inched closer…

David looked at him… looked at the clown… and burst out laughing. "Dude, it's not going to hurt you!"

"Tell that to fucking It," he whispered, this time curling into Trent's neck.

Trent just grinned as he pulled Sebastian closer. "Yeah, I think Stephen King scarred us all."

He gripped Trent, pulled his hand, like he could squeeze out some sort of protective force-field from his fingers, beginning to shake.

"Oh, God, Bassy," Trent shook his head. "Most people's weaknesses are algebra or dancing. Of course you had to choose clowns."

* * *

**Hey guys!**

**So, back with more writings! Life is, as usual, mental... But now it's just work. And my uni screwing me over, but, well, what else is uni for, right? :P**

**Too tired to ramble. It's 11. Worked last night with crazy thunderstorms and the such. Equals no sleep. Meaning BED SOUNDS AMAZING RIGHT NOW.**

**So yes.**

**Thanks to everyone that has read and reviewed! Shout outs to PenMagic and Different Child! And to my Guest, whoever you were - it has been posted over there for you :-) In my Warbler drabble thread :-)**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be struck by lightning? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	12. Born This Way

**Prompt: **Born This Way – give a new character a BTW shirt, or change one of the original character's – they've all grown a lot since then. From MuseInMe3

**Characters: **Hunter... his old military division, with flashbacks to his old divisional officer in italics.

**Words:** 688

* * *

"_Alright, cadets! Fall in, in three ranks at the back of the room! … MOVE!"_

Hunter twisted the stiff – new – cotton in his hand. He didn't think it would ever be possible for him to be uncomfortable in this room… yet here he was, surrounded by his peers, all wearing the exact same thing – bar the black lettering across their starched white shirts.

"_We have been given instruction to unify our movements. Times are hard, and all this fighting is achieving is putting more strain on our nation and shaking us to our very core. So, from tonight, and for the rest of the year – we're in for something different. This will test you in ways you've probably never considered – but I have faith in you, and from this, you will learn to have faith in each other, and, just as importantly – faith in yourselves."_

The only thing stopping him from snorting, giggling, shrieking, was the fact that no one else had yet… They were all here, all experiencing the exact same thing – and he wouldn't be the first to break.

"_One thing that you will learn very quickly in the military, is fear. Fear of dying, fear of letting your country down… fear of pain, fear of the unknown. Fear is such a crucial weapon – and one that is always overlooked."_

Hunter didn't fear death. He'd shrugged that long ago.

"_But like Newton said – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Your enemies will try to separate us. Try to get us to turn on in each other, using their power to create, to manipulate fear. And so, we will learn how to fight back."_

He finally sighed as they lined up, three ranks… He was front rank, fourth from the right, as always. If nothing else… the familiarity was comforting.

"_Fear can unify us. Fear will unify us. Each and every one of you has a fear – some have many, some have few. Some will let it run its course – others will fight it with tooth and fist. But, however you cope – you cannot do it alone."_

His fingers tapped their rhythm, like his leg had turned into a piano… and he wasn't the only one. But, this was it. He could do it. He'd already put his shirt on for all to see. Now, it was time to love it, to grow… Courage, Hunter. Courage.

"_What is it that you are afraid of? What is it that keeps you awake at night? What are you truly insecure about?"_

Words, everywhere, surrounding him. **Big nose**, **perfect**, **pressure**. All so relatable… And, their faces. Everyone had that look of pre-show nerves painted. The only thing between them not uniform, was the ugly black print staining everyone's shirts.

"_It is only through weaknesses that we are strong. We must accept these parts of ourselves – we must embrace them like a long-lost family member. So, for the next three weeks – this is what we will do. Discover your greatest insecurities and fears. Then, you are to paint them on this white T-shirt, and, for the next month, this will replace your uniform. We will accept you – but only when you can accept yourself. After that month, the shirt is yours to do what you want – throw it down a well, burn it, use it as a dishrag. I don't care. But your fear is your own – so own _it_."_

He swallowed, brushing a lock of honey hair from his eyes, looked out into the audience… His own shirt reflecting in their eyes…

**DISEASED**

Then he took in a breath, opened his mouth, and began to sing.

_My Mama told me when I was young,_

_We're all born superstars._

* * *

**Is anyone else getting on board the Hunter train?**

**HOMG. He's amazing. Love him love him love him. And he intrigues me. He really does. I don't know what it is yet, but there's something... and I'll keep digging. But, until then - you get this. Pre-Dalton Hunter :-)**

**Shout outs to Pen Magic and perfectlyODD!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be put in the washing machine? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	13. Fifteen Minutes of Fame

**Prompt: **Rock the Vote, from GleekMom

**Characters:** Sue, Will, New Directions

**Words:** 586

**Notes:** Okay, I'm not American. I have basically no understanding of this whatsoever. But, I was sitting here stuck for ideas, and, well, this is what I have. And I can move on :D

* * *

There was a time once, when Will Schuester thought that nothing would ever surprise him.

This time was obviously before Sue Sylvester marched willingly into Glee club, surrounded by the AV club in full honour, cameras and microphones in tow.

"Get that out of my face. You there, metal-mouth – other direction. Pan out. I want my stereotypical reaction shots. I want to see the fear in their eyes."

She stood proud, glaring down at the hated club in front of her… but, she could do with their help… whether they were willing or not.

"Sue, they're just kids."

"Oh, shut it, Schuester, before the birds flying around in that empty brain of yours make a break for freedom and migrate back into the curly mop of wires you actually call 'hair'."

"Is there actually a point to all this? Or are you just looking for more reasons to disrupt my kids?"

She gazed out into space, taking her time, deliberating… Holding all their attention. She stole it all, and fed from it… It gave her power. "Sorry, Gargamel – I was momentarily distracted by the top of your head. Are there actually cracked eggs in there, or is it just the amount of gel you use? Oh, and here's a nice little tip for you: whatever you're using – it's not working."

The overgrown hobbit sighed. "Sue, just get to the point. What do you want?"

"All in good time." She turned to one of the camera-monkeys. "You getting this?"

A nod and a salute.

"Good." Turn back to face the kids. Stare them in the eye. "Now, idiotic and apathetic as you all may be, I'm sure some of you have heard about the Rock the Vote campaign."

"And?"

"And they have asked local celebrity, one certain Sue Sylvester, to participate in their next ad."

There we go. There was the shock. And on camera too. She'd be able to savour this moment for a long time.

"Miss Sylvester?" Barbara Streisand raised a hand. "_I_ think what you're trying to do is great… but aren't you running for Congress? Are you even allowed to do an ad?"

"What they don't know won't hurt them."

"I'm pretty sure they'll see you…" Rachel muttered, half under her breath… but it didn't matter.

"So, I said I knew the perfect bunch of young misfits to help promote whatever the hell they want."

That seemed to twig something in the brain hidden in the rats nest. "Sue, you can't use my kids to buy yourself more votes. Admittedly on a moral scale, you've done a lot worse, but I still refuse to see that happen."

She had to refrain from rolling her eyes… "New nickname: Mark Parisi." When she was met with blank looks, she sighed. "No, scratch that… You're even more Off the Mark than its creator." Damn, not her best… she was getting rusty. Or else seriously over-estimating the kids' understanding of pop culture. Probably the latter. "No, Will. Believe it or not, these supposed adults hold a lot of power, and, hard a concept as this may be to grasp, it's our job as teachers to empower our students. You should know that your kids have a voice – I'm here to get them to use it correctly."

He had his eyebrows raised… but couldn't find fault in her words, if his silence was anything to go by. Either that or he'd finally learnt to shut up.

"So. Who wants to finally get their pretty little smile on TV?"

* * *

**Wow. It's... yeah.**

**Too tired to comment. Want to get back to writing the next prompt!**

**Just for anyone interested, with the last drabble, I'm basing a story on it - Born This Way :-)**

**Thanks to everyone that's read, reviewed, all that jazz! Shout outs to ficdirectory (who actually reviewed all of them in one go... as well as wrote for every single prompt in like 3 days. Insane, I'm telling you!), Pen Magic, Different Child and Carbon65!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my phone to develop a mouth and bite my ear off? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	14. Precious Liquid Rubies

**Prompt: **"On a cold rainy night", from Different Child

**Characters:** Brad

**Words:** 500

**Notes:** It's, uh… graphic? Just be careful… It's only a tiny sentence or two that are, but, well, I have a love of horror. Just… yeah.

* * *

On a cold, rainy night, he decided it had to be done. He'd had enough. He'd been made fun of, poked and teased and tormented too many times. And it was time to end it, once and for all.

The wind battered against the windows, whistling and screaming and howling through any crack it could find in the wall. But it barely registered, barely made itself heard, against the booming of his memory in his mind.

"_Worthless."_

"_Can't sing for shit."_

"_Hit it!"_

… He smiled as he browsed his collection, the knives catalogued precisely, their weight, shape and size each contributing to their Dewey Decimal System. This one was too heavy… this one too flimsy… But this one, once sharpened… Like Goldilocks, he carefully unsheathed it, grabbed the stone.

Each downwards stroke only brought more and more excitement, as he pictured their peaceful faces down below him, so blissfully unaware… Every screech of the blade like fingernails down a blackboard, so much more pleasant than the 'singing' of that Glee club…

Tonight would be it. He would no longer be that piece of furniture. No longer would he be expected to know every song every written. No longer would he be expected to read minds. No longer would he be ignored, melting away like an abandoned patch of ice in the carpark.

Tonight… Tonight he would be remembered, for now and evermore.

He could see it now. He would creep, slowly, cautiously, soundlessly, up to her window… She'd be the first to go. She was the worst of the lot of them. The runt. Rachel Berry. He'd enter the house, tiptoe up to her room… Then, in one stroke, he'd slash across her throat, watch the blood splurt out of her carotid, splatter her walls with the precious liquid rubies, drip down her limp hand, down the fingers, down the bed, staining the floor. Watch her die, just like he had been his entire life.

But he wouldn't stay. No, he couldn't. He couldn't savour the moment. Because she was only the beginning. There were more. There was her twin, the boy, supposedly so kind and compassionate… but he'd never taken the time of day to acknowledge him, had he? And her boyfriend, and all her friends. They all deserved to die.

And then he'd progress to faculty. And, saving the best for last – Will Schuester.

He gasped as he sliced his thumb wide open, testing the sharpness of the knife. It would definitely do the trick. He walked outside, heart thumping in his chest. The rain beat down around him, cleaning him… Washing away any traces he had of the man he once was… of humanity.

Now he was pure evil.

Now he could begin.

A crack of thunder and a bolt of lightning split the sky. He rocked back on his heels and laughed, mania flashing in his eyes, glinting off the polished silver of the dewed knife and the too-still puddles on the pavement.

_Killing time_.

* * *

**Brad with a vengeance... Man, I love writing horror... And, onwards!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my bookshelf to collapse on top of me to prevent me from writing? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	15. Trembling Hands

**Prompt:** Write a scene from one of your current or past fics that you were afraid to write – from GleekMom.

**Notes:** Okay, I've written Sue and Wes together. In terms of both ridicule and horrible ships, you don't get much worse from that… and I'm pretty fearless. And, my reason for not writing certain ships isn't because I'm afraid – it's usually just for reviews. So, I've ignored the whole shipping aspect completely… and come up with this. I'll explain better at the end though. My apologies for going so far over the word limit, but it was one of those things that just needed to come out.

**Characters: **Wes, David

* * *

It was seven thirty in the morning when he saw the ground beneath David's feet begin to shake.

They were at breakfast, like always. Wes was finishing off his dark soy mocha, grinning as he waited for caffeine to kick in for his best friend. They were sitting down in the senior's corner of the common room, a little coffee table between them and the newspaper split between the two.

David had just yawned as he flicked over a page, his eyes fluttering shut. But, when they opened again, his whole face greyed and Wes instantly grabbed the bin from the bench next to him, wondering if he were about to vomit or faint.

But he did neither. Instead, he picked up the page, threw it in front of his face to block anyone out.

"David? What's wrong?"

"Let me read," came the gruff response, barely whispered, trying to hide any emotion.

Whatever it was, he needed to absorb. Wes wasn't about to do anything… even move… Whatever it was, his world was about to come crashing around him… the least Wes could do was to provide some visible form of stability.

Plus, David wasn't the type who needed prying. David needed to calculate. To work out his thoughts, and, from that, what to and not to say.

And so they sat.

He sat through the rustling of the paper, as his body began to shake. Through the laboured breathing. Through the soft popping noises of a lip being chewed.

It was no surprise that when David finally lowered the newspaper, his face was visibly pale, his eyes practically bursting from their sockets.

"Can I do anything?"

David bit his lip, shook his head. "I need a phone call. Just… leave me alone."

Then he walked shakily out the room, head held high, forcing an image of everything-is-fine. Only his hunched shoulders could give him away.

* * *

It was a little past noon when it all became clear.

They were now sitting in the lunch hall. David had just sat, staring, at half a toasted sandwich. Wes had tried bargaining, tried asking, even watched as Thad tried tickling him… but he made no sound, no acknowledgement they were there, other than aim a weak punch in Thad's general vicinity.

Until Wes finally asked, "Did you get your phone call?"

David nodded. "Bad news always travels faster than good," he whispered.

"What happened?"

"Not here. Not around people."

Wes understood. Whatever had happened, he needed to get out… Just not in such a public area, where anyone could look over and see the emotion swirling, a maelstrom in his black eyes. "Piano room?"

With a nod, they stood up and left.

* * *

The piano room really was the perfect place. It was known, not just to the Warblers but to the entire dorm house. There were very strict, unwritten, rules – if someone was in there, you did not enter unless an emergency, or if you believed the person was a danger on their own. It was open at any time of day or night, for any purpose.

The instant they walked in, heels clicking and echoing against the polished floorboards, they felt it. The magic. The peace of the room, the willingness to listen and to learn. It whispered to you – the piano called to you, to sit, to explore, to share. The room asked about you, took away your fears and your reservations, leaving just you and your thoughts and emotions.

Wes knew the room well. Every night, when he couldn't sleep, his feet would lead him here. He would sit down at the piano, watching the dim light from the chandelier, filtering down like a blanket through the butterflies of dust, how it hit the piano and shimmered, tapered off, down onto the floor, away from his eyes. And he would open up the baby grand, fingers just brushing over the rough, worn, yellowing keys, and sit there awhile longer, just breathing in the music. Until, finally, like one knows just how much force required to walk, so his fingers knew the keys… and he would make the piano sing back to him.

But not today. Today was not for him.

"How can everything just be going on like normal?" David spat the instant they'd stepped inside. "I just… I don't get it. It's like my world has just completely fallen down and nobody even seems to notice. And what's worse is that, while wishing everything just stopped, my world has always been rotating and for some people they go through this and it's like, man, what have I missed, why does it keep going on and just…" He sat down on the leather couch by the back, a hand clapped over his mouth. "How can I be expected to continue? To just keep going?"

"Don't apologise," Wes said straight away, sitting on the piano stool, his back turned so that he could look out towards his best friend. "It just… happens sometimes… unfortunately…"

"But, why, Wes?" A flicker of rage burnt through his eyes like gunpowder. "Tell me. Tell me why. Why does it have to go on? Why can't everyone just stop?"

He sighed. "Because the world would fall off its axis and into the sun if we stopped for everyone's misery." He contemplated going over to the darker boy, placing a hand on his shoulder, letting the serenity flow through him, help David find some peace… but he had more still to let out. "What happened?"

At first, David didn't say anything, just sat there and shook, like a leaf ripped from its branch on the cusp of winter, already dead before the wind could lay it on the ground. He pressed his lips tightly together, frowning, hands clasped together and raised to his forehead like they could defy Newton's third law and pass through the skin and flesh and come out the other side… He was searching for words.

Then he looked up, hands dropping – though still tightly clasped – back between his knees. "You know John?"

Wes nodded. David's friend… mentor, really… David was always complaining of arguments he'd had with the man – he was arrogant and the definition of a politician, yet, somehow, he knew David had more respect for him than anyone else he'd ever met.

"He, uh… He was murdered."

Wes took in a sharp breath.

"I… I found out this morning. The paper… mentioned a suspicious death and had a photo of his yard and his dog…"

"David, I'm so sorry."

"And so I had to wait for that call. But I knew. I just _knew_. We used to joke that his diabetes and soda addiction would kill him…"

Wes grimaced, letting him ramble.

"I don't know who did it. What if it's someone I know? And, I mean… this stuff doesn't happen. Not to people like me. Not to anyone. But… I don't know… I mean… I mean, I know he was… how he was… but how could he get himself killed? How could someone do that? I mean… we joke about killing – "

But David's voice broke and the rest of his sentence lost.

Wes, for once, wasn't entirely sure how to react… He'd been so young when he'd lost his own parents, he couldn't find a way to relate it back. And he had no idea how David was feeling… Death, loss, sure, it was so… almost clichéd… But, murder?

There'd be two options. Either he'd be shaking with rage, anger forcing through his veins like hot lava. Rage at having someone stolen from him like an indigenous child. Horror at the absolute monstrosity of the action that had occurred…

Or else, and Wes thought this more likely, he'd be full of insecurities. Death has a funny way of mapping the world into a diorama and putting it in an aquarium that's filled only halfway. While you _know_ that everything, virtually, is just the way it should… your whole view gets distorted, through the undulations of the water, through the cracks and imperfections in the glass. How much of the world had he missed seeing? And, more importantly… without knowing who it was, how could David ever maintain any sense of trust again?

The black boy was still shaking, though his feet remained planted to the floor, his spine straighter than when seated behind the Warbler council desk.

David wasn't a person of touch. He'd hug Wes, sure, but that was born of a social normality, and the fact that that was just how Wes communicated… He wouldn't initiate if he could avoid it. He _definitely_ wouldn't go seeking it out. So, despite every fibre of his being longing to just take his hand, or squeeze his shoulder… he couldn't. Not yet. All it would do would make him more uncomfortable.

But, Death is isolating. Even though he was with his family, when Wes lost his parents, all he felt was alone and empty. Knowing David… he'd be the same way.

So, words wouldn't be enough. Touch would only hinder. What could he do?

He found himself facing the baby grand, his fingers instantly plucking out the shadow of his mind, hoping that the music would be enough.

_So throw me a line!_

_Somebody, out there, help me!_

_I'm on my own. _

_I'm on my own._

Wes' fingers brushed the tips of the keys as his chord shimmered and faded to an end, and he turned around to see bloodshot and brimming eyes.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. I don't know who to hate… I don't know if I want to know," David whispered. "Tell me, Wes. Tell me. Please. I'm so scared."

And Wes just grimaced. "We'll keep you safe."

With those words, he finally faltered, crumbling under the weight of emotion and into Wes' arms like the Berlin Wall.

"We'll keep you safe."

* * *

**To be honest, when I first started writing this, I just wanted Wes to sing the song... but then, everything that I'd attributed to the song, to the confusion and despair, started pouring out as well.**

**I could write more. I really could. But, at the same time, I'm only ready to get this much out.**

**Christmas Eve, two years back. I found out on Boxing Day, through Facebook of all places, that John had been murdered. And that's affected me. It really has... Death, I can deal with... it's not foreign. But having someone stolen from you, in that manner... **

**So, perhaps I'll extend this. I mean... I'm okay. But, it could be quite cathartic to push it and see what comes of it. We'll see, I guess. See what I've buried down there in my treasure chest.**

**Also, if there's anyone out there that needs it... You can talk to me at any time. I'm more than willing to listen. You can PM me here, or go to my Ask on Tumblr (pi-on-a-skateboard. tumblr. com ) Whatever you're going through - you don't have to do it alone. Because death has a funny way of isolating you... but you aren't alone. You can get through it. It takes awhile - but it really does get easier.**

**So. Like it? Hate it? Want my bottle of Pepsi Max to explode, showering my computer in liquid and thus rendering it unusable, particularly for the purposes of writing and uploading? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	16. Let Your Colours Burst

**Prompt:** If only I'd known then what I know now! (First person) from Melissa Motown

**Words:** 629

**Characters:** Wes, Trent, Warblers

* * *

"_Alright, Trent. Time starts now. I want some form of thought when I come back in. I don't care about the language – I just want something written._"

* * *

If only I'd known then what I know now! An essay by Trent Nixon.

Okay, good. He's gone. It's… I mean, I love him. We all do. But Wes, when pissed, is not a pretty sight. It's rather scary. It doesn't happen often, but when it does…

I'm sorry, Wes. Alright? It was dumb. I'm sorry that you were at the receiving end. Jeff, I would have laughed hysterically. Actually… I still did a little with you. We all did. But, you didn't deserve it. Not when you've been…

I digress. You don't need to hear just how appreciative we all are of you.

So, why did I do it?

You see, I've always been that person. We were coming up to midterms, and everyone was so busy studying. All I wanted to do was lighten the mood.

I was good. I never went anywhere near paper, or things that could be wrecked. I even managed to keep myself away from any form of electrical circuit. You know how difficult that is for me!

So, I decided it was time for a prank.

But, see, with me… I'm always the ideas person. Not the implementer. It tends to end in tears. Or flames.

So, anyway… I was so careful. I bought a six-pack of 20 ounce diet cokes. I opened them so cautiously… and, you can guess the rest. On the lid, above the seal, I placed the mentos.

Now, I know it doesn't always appear this way, but I do have a brain stuck somewhere in this huge head of mine. Mechanics, as I'm sure you're aware, always fascinate me. So, fashioning a seal to break as you twist the lid… was not overly difficult. Actually, it was pretty simple, compared to pretty much everything I attempt. Much less dangerous, too. Sure, I risk ruining some clothing with Coke… but it's better than, well… yeah.

So, I placed in my mentos and closed over my little bombs. Then it was time for action!

The trouble was… well, you've seen me play poker. My poker face is incredible – in the sense that it usually lasts me, on average, 2 seconds before I dissolve into fits of laughter. So… I was doomed from the start, I suppose. Everyone's reactions were great… Jeff was the first – he started laughing too, and told me to go give one to Blaine, and so on and so forth.

Eventually I came full circle, when Thad (yeah, even Thad has learnt not to trust me) told me to offer you one. And… you're Wes. I couldn't do that to you even if I wanted to.

And that's how the door of the common-room fridge found itself 6 coke-bombs waiting to explode.

And, of course, being mid-terms, they got forgotten. I mean, I do actually work here too.

And then… I had to ask for a diet coke. Correction – I had to ask _you_ for a diet coke.

You could have thrown it to me. You didn't have to fetch a glass and pour it… But, you did. The instant I heard the crack, I screamed, "STOP!"

But it was too late.

Foam splashed up, coating the fridge, the fan, the walls, the ceiling… everywhere. And you emerged, coughing and spluttering, bubbles turning your jet black hair and eyebrows white. You rub your eyes and turn to look at me.

And I run.

Was it funny? Hilarious. Would I do it again? Definitely.

What have I learned from all this?

If you're going to fuck with Wes… don't get caught.

Love you, Wes! And… I'll pay for the dry-cleaning.

* * *

**Hey guys!**

**I'mma keep writing and not waffle on. Must catch up before the weekend is through! Or, at least, until Wednesday! And, Hunter is crying out to me. He wants love.**

**Huge thanks to Different Child for forcing me to write this!**

**Thanks to everyone reading! Shout-outs to ficdirectory, Pen Magic, Carbon65 and Different Child!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want to set Trent and his fridge onto me? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	17. See You Later

**Prompt:** No one understood how they fell in love, but there was no denying that what they shared was untouchable – from StarGleekBelle

**Words: **621

**Characters:** Hunter and Clare (my OC)

* * *

"You know, this… is a little crazy… but I love you."

Hunter stiffened a little, squeezed her hand a little tighter. "I know you do."

"Don't you love me?"

And of course that question had to follow. He moved in a bit closer, his leg running up hers, joined at the hip and so much skin between them. "Of course I do," he sighed.

"So why won't you say it?"

He ran his eyes over her… From her flaxen hair, hanging limp and flying all over her pillow, to her huge blue eyes, so sunken and dark and shadowed by ghosts but still so full of life and happiness and fire… The way her lips pulled right across her mouth, the crinkling in her cheeks, how one side pulled up more than the other… Her skin, dry and pale, her shoulders, the tiny mosquito bites of breasts that by some miracle she'd managed to develop… And her tiny frame, the ligaments popping on her wrists, rippling as she traced her fingers up and down his arm like a painting… She wasn't healthy – not by a long way. But she was perfect. And she was his.

He plucked up part of the starched white sheets, folded the edge over her face before pulling it back and brushing her hair back again… any opportunity to touch her. Then he kissed her forehead. "Because you're not dying."

She fiddled with the tubing from her IV, blinking up at him with those eyes (_God, she looks like Bambi_) and the tiniest hint of a smirk playing in her countenance. "Our situation begs to differ, Hunter."

"No." His tone was firm. "Neither of us are dying. Not today."

"Is that an order?" She whispered.

"Yes. An order. And you know what happens when you disobey a command."

She giggled as he turned aside… smothered a cough into his fist, deep and hacking. "I think you need to repeat that to yourself. Disobeying your own orders, are we? What happens then?"

"Then we have a race."

"To the finish?"

He nodded, blinking back tears. They were constantly in this race. Constantly coming in and out of this place. But the both of them were so damn stubborn. To be completely honest, it was a miracle either had managed to last this long.

He rested back against her bed. _Her_ bed. Not his. And for a while they lay there, watching old reruns of Whose Line, and laughing quietly, stealing soft kisses and sharing oxygen, listening to the incessant beeps of life.

But then she pushed herself up and onto her side, not quite on Hunter's stomach but just close enough to hold that precious equilibrium. And she looked at him, and he at her… Just the two of them. They didn't need words. They just needed each other.

"Hunt, you have to promise me something."

He picked up her hand, laced the fingers through so perfectly and kissed each tip. "What's that?"

She sighed, laying down, her head putting the tiniest pressure on his chest but never letting go hands. "That we won't do a Shakespeare. That you'll stop being self-destructive. That you'll go out there and make a life for yourself…"

"Hey."

He was just met with more sighs.

"Clare, I – "

"No. I'm tired. So tired. Promise me."

"I love you…"

"Promise me."

His eyes were moist, his heart beating out his chest. "Okay. I promise."

"I'm so tired, Hunt."

"I know, bear. Me too."

He leant down, capturing her lips one last time.

"I'll see you later, okay?"

The tears finally broke loose as he broke away and gave her one final squeeze… but he managed to choke out one last "See you soon."

* * *

**From the Born This Way!verse**

**Oh, Hunter. I'm sorry, baby.**

**So it's a little different... and this is soon to appear in Born This Way. But, hope you guys can appreciate it for what it is for the moment :-)**

**Now running to work. Again. But, I finish at 10 tomorrow and I'm not back to Tueday! So I get nearly 2 days off! Woohoo!**

**Thanks to Carbon65 and Different Child!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to fall into a vat of ground chili? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	18. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Prompt:** It's 2022, Welcome to McKinley's 10-Year High School Reunion! From MuseInMe3

**Words:** 578

**Characters:** Well, you know who they all are :p

* * *

The walls shivered in anticipation… It had been so long. _So_ long.

It seemed like just yesterday when they had been abuzz, children rushing to and from class like ants, teachers pausing in the corridor to survey and monitor and procrastinate, the clocks ever ticking on and on, the halls awash with brightly coloured clothing and smiles and tears and slushees and laughter…

It had seen so much, lived so much, this old school. Here was where Blaine announced his transfer to Kurt… Here was where Artie and Tina had shared their first kiss… And here was where Will and Emma had fallen to the ground in a mess of white, and here was where Marley made her final decision, and here where Quinn took those first steps to finding her own freedom, and here where Holly Holiday taught teenagers about the dangers of 'cucumbers'.

Or should we now say there?

It seemed such a short time since that horrible day, when the school was forced to close… When the water fountains spurted the blood of the innocent, and the pool filled with the tears for those taken way before their time.

And it had lain there… stood there…

At first it was a memento, and that alone. It sat where it lay as a warning. The pimple of mankind, its pain a constant reminder of all that was wrong with the world, of the peril of ignoring illness of the spirit as well as the body, of the simple fragility of the human in its entirety…

Then it had progressed. As the building wheezed under years of dust and wept its own peeling paint, it had become a new home. It had started to form new memories, and started to relinquish its grip on its horrible past. The town of Lima had begun to move on…

But those inside could not move on. No longer breathing, their bodies decomposing under the floors and in the walls, like their memories imprinted in their blood, they were unable to live. But, unaware that they no longer tread the path of the tangible, they were unable to die.

But now… Ten years later… something had changed.

He had come back. The only one. He shivered as he stared into the broken windows, the eyes of the hundreds of souls trapped within… A tear fell from his cheek, splashing onto the lonely red rose gripped in his hand, twisting into his palm and drawing blood… but he never faltered. Then, drawing in a huge breath of oxygen, of pure and unadulterated life… he took that fateful step, up the driveway, up the stairs where he had once performed, where he'd taken that slushee, where he'd played the piano and laughed and danced and sung and been happy.

He was the only one. The only one. The treader… He could run away now. He could drop the flower and leave, feet thumping on the ground, echoing the metronome of the gunshots they could never escape. He could turn and never glance back.

But he didn't.

They inhaled, feeding off his energy, so foreign now.

And with a bitter smile, more a twisted grimace than a sign of mirth, he placed the flower at the very threshold of the building.

"Merry Christmas, McKinley. Happy ten years. Lest we forget."

They smiled, their cackles masked in the howling of the wind and the pitter-patter of rain on his umbrella.

And so it began again.

* * *

**And apparently this is what happens when it's past midnight and I feel too sick to sleep and I'm getting excited for taking my sister to see Paranorman tomorrow :p**

**So, it's a little different... Personification is just kinda what I do. Hope it's alright!**

**Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, etc! Shout outs to Pen Magic, Different Child, ficdirectory and Eraman!**

**Oh, and because it's been awhile - you really should check out the responses from the other girls! They're all absolutely marvelous, and I'm sure they'd appreciate anyone and everyone reading their answers! And it's pretty cool just how different our responses always seem to be :-)**

**Like it? Hate it? Want someone to put me in the microwave, smother me in salt and butter, and eat me like popcorn? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	19. What's That, Skip?

**Prompt:** It was hate at first sight – from GleekMom

**Characters: **Puck

**Words: **514

* * *

No, he didn't like animals. Not at all. Not one tiny bit.

They were too small, for one thing. Too vulnerable and adorable. He couldn't stand the way their eyes just glittered as they looked up at you, how your soul just reflected in them, all your good and bad. They were so goddamn manipulative. All you had to do was look at one and suddenly you'd be on a mission to find them food or a brush or scratch them behind their ears.

Nope. There was no way he could like them.

And then there was the sheer amount of care they needed. Honestly, who could be bothered to take them out for walks, and feed it and play with it? Who wanted to just roll around on the ground with it, throw a ball and cheer when it brought it back, play tug-of-war with a rope? Who on earth wanted to have it lick your face to death, or to argue back with you in its own barking language, or to take care of all your unwanted brussel sprouts?

A complete waste of space, the lot of them.

This isn't even mentioning how freaking loyal they are. You can kick a dog to the curb, and five minutes later when you take the trash out, it's still happy to see you. They're constantly in your face, wanting love and attention. And, they don't care whether you give it to them or not. Because no matter what you do, they will always be bright and sunny and

***SQUIRREL***

Who wanted one anyway? Who wanted someone to sit there and listen to you regardless? Who would beg for pats and lick away your tears… Who would be there through it all… When your dad left, when your sister was throwing a massive tantrum, when your mom had to pull a triple shift at the diner just to plate up the table… When you sat alone, all confused and empty and hurting, with absolutely no one to turn to, no one to understand you? Who wanted the tiny little thing that would just be there to help you make it through the night, to keep you company and love you even just for that little while?

No. Useless. The whole lot of them.

Especially this one. Look at it. All stray and gnarly, hanging out by the side of the road.

"Hey, boy!" Noah crouched down by the trembling puppy dog, holding out his hand for it to lick. "Hey there, boy! What's your name?"

The dog rolled over, eyes growing huge and tongue lolling out its mouth.

"Who's a good boy?" he crooned. "Do you want a belly rub? Huh? Who wants a belly rub?" He stretched out, patting the dog all over.

She barked happily.

"Awww, you're a good dog! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!"

She just stared at him.

No. Noah didn't like dogs.

It was hate at first sight.

It had to be.

Because there was no way in _hell_ that he would fall in love with this damned creature.

* * *

**Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh so much to write!**

**Okay. I have two more to write before bed tonight! Seeing how it's Wednesday. So, yes. Have some Puck X puppy love!**

**Thanks to everyone reading! Shout outs to ficdirectory, Different Child, GleekMom, Melissa Motown, Eraman and Pen Magic!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my dog to mistake me for raw steak? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	20. My Very Best Friends!

**Prompt:** Secret Societies – from Different Child

**Words:** 500. I can't do any more. I'm sorry, I just… Yeah. I'm sorry for inflicting this on you all… Why did I ever think this a good idea?!

**Characters:** … It had to be the Warblers. Again. *whistles* And, oh, dear Lord, how I have _missed_ writing pure and utter CRACK

* * *

"Neigh! Neigh!"

"Brfrfrrffrfrfffrfrfrfrfrf!"

"You've got two empty halves of a coconut and you're bangin' 'em together!"

"So? We have ridden since the snows of winter covered this land, through the – "

"ENOUGH WITH THE BLOODY MONTY PYTHON ALREADY!"

Sebastian Smythe rolled his eyes from his position on the council table, dead centre, with Trent and Jeff quoting on either side. He took out his trusty gavel – one of the first presents he'd been given when he joined the Warblers – and rapped it on the soundboard. "I now call this meeting officially to order."

"Awwww, Sebby, you're no fun at all!" Jeff whined.

"Well, at least I'm not suggesting that coconuts migrate. To Ohio," he replied, rummaging through the council desk.

"It could be carried by an African swallow!"

He glared at the junior. "Trent, seriously. These are going in the official-yet-unofficial minutes. If they get found, we could be trialled for copyright violation."

"Fine." Trent crossed his arms in a huff.

"Good. Now, first order of business – grooming." He nodded down at the array of tiny brushes and combs in their basket in front, choosing a purple brush and passing it along. "Present… your My Little Pony."

"Neighhhhh!"

With a soft banging on the table, the four boys brought out their tiny coloured toy horses. Then, from the bucket, they each chose a tiny brush and began to look after the manes of the animal.

While this was going on, Sebastian, like every meeting of their secret appreciation society, had began singing quietly under his breath.

_I used to wonder what friendship could be_

_Until you shared its magic with me!_

"What the hell?!" Suddenly, a wild David appeared from under the table! He had no idea what was going on… He'd fallen asleep in the choir room sometime after rehearsal that day… and had awoken behind one of the leather couches to the sound of neighing and coconut imitations… and, poking his head around the side, had found some of his friends playing with My Little Ponies. It had been a hard day… and he'd seen enough.

Unfortunately, though, his plans to sneak out unnoticed were foiled when he crashed into the trash can by the entrance.

"Uh… Hi, guys! I'll just…"

"Hi, David." The boys made no excuse of the toys in front of them… as you do…

"I just…" He sighed, hoping that quoting would help him escape, make it less awkward. "I wish we could all get along like we used to in middle school… I wish I could bake a cake out of rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy…"

Jeff stood up. "He doesn't even go here!"

"David? Do you even belong to this club?" Sebastian asked him gently.

"No. I just have… a lot of feelings…" David backed out the door, seriously concerned for the future of the Warblers. He'd never thought it possible, but apparently they'd managed to find a way to make even Wes' gavel obsession appear sane…

* * *

**THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!**

**... I'm sorry. I am so so sorry. I don't know where the hell this came from... But I don't think even Cas and Sam and Dean could fix this...**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to explode some Richard and get sent to purgatory? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	21. Murphy's Law

**Prompt:** Write a cliffhanger! From Melissa Motown

**Words: **572… With a very literal interpretation of the prompt…

**Characters:** I had to do the Warblers. None of New Directions are accident-prone enough.

* * *

"Trent! Hold on!"

"Trent!"

"Help me!"

The junior clawed frantically, legs kicking and flailing as the scrambled to find something, anything, solid… but were met with only air and more dirt crumbling around him.

"Help me! I'm slipping!"

He was barely clutching at the rocks on top… He couldn't bear to look down, to see miles and miles of nothing, the trees down below even smaller than ants… He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Help!"

"Trent, hold on!"

It was Sebastian's voice first that reached him, and then his fingers gripping into his arm, so tight, so tight.

"I won't let go, Trent. Okay? I've got you."

His heart thumped again. He didn't want to die. And definitely not like this, in such a clichéd manner, hanging off the edge of a cliff…

"Jeff! I need you here!"

There was another set of fingers now, around his left wrist, and then an Australian accent, seriously strong in his stressed state, came down to him.

"Trent, we've got you. Now, you need to help us."

"I'm slipping!" He cried.

"No. We won't let you. Now, listen!" Sebastian squeezed his arm tighter, his grip strengthening. "Is there anything that you can use to push yourself up?"

He kicked out again, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even a cloud would provide better support than this. "No…" he whispered.

"Okay. We're going to have to pull you, okay?" A slight pause as he gave another kick, his eyes still clamped shut. "Trent, look at me."

He whimpered… He couldn't speak any longer, like the words would weigh him down, drag him further and further away from the only things keeping him alive.

"Look at me, Trent!" Sebastian snapped.

He finally squeezed his eyes open… Brown and hazel stared back at him, fear in there, but a remarkable calmness and determination as well.

"Just hold on. You are not going to fall. Got it?"

He hummed an assent.

"Trent! Answer me!"

"Yes," he choked out.

"On the count of three…" Jeff said, "we're going to pull. You're going to need to pull forward with your upper arms, and wriggle back up on your stomach. Seb, we need to anchor him. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Understood."

_Goodbye, world. It's been nice knowing you._

"Trent! Stay with us! We need you!" Jeff's voice cut back in to his thoughts again. "Now, ready? One… two… three!"

They hit the count, and up he came… just a little bit, but now his armpits were most definitely back on the proper edge of the cliff-face. Then another count, and another. He wriggled and wriggled, and Jeff and Seb pulled and pulled… Soon his chest was back on the ground, and then his stomach, and, finally, his legs were there and he was there and damn he was _alive_.

They helped him roll on his back before taking an armpit and dragging him back, back to where the tents were set up, where the fire was, and food and warmth and _solidness_.

"And this is why we told you not to wander too far out," Jeff rasped as they reached the rest of the Warblers, before collapsing down into Nick's arms.

"I'm sorry. It just… it crumbled away from me…"

"Dammit, Trent," Sebastian whispered, shivering himself as he pulled the trembling boy into his arms, never before so glad to feel the unyielding ground beneath him… "This is why we can't have nice things."

* * *

**Well...**

**Okay, so, if you've ever read basically anything that I've written ever, you'll know that I like my cliffhangers. I'm a bit like Eleven - I _hate_ endings. Especially nice conclusive ones...**

**So, instead of writing just another cliffhanger, I'd decided I'd take it... a bit more literally. And, Trent was the only person I could think of who's accident-prone enough to have a cliff-face crumble underneath him... Honestly, they can't take him _anywhere_. It always ends up in tears. Or flames. Or both... *shakes head***

**And, I am now officially caught up! And, being in Australia, I'm quite happy in the sense I get to publish this on a Wednesday in both my AND the US times (just...)!**

**Next update will be in a week! And I shall finally be able to go back to Hunter and just get this chapter out the way!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be crushed by the portable hoists tomorrow? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	22. The Beaver Within

**Prompt:** You are the average of the 5 people you spend the most time with – from ficdirectory! Congrats on your first prompt – and I hope we all do it justice! Also… thanks to Different Child and Carbon65 for their help… I've been looking for an excuse to write this, so I hope you girls don't mind!

**Characters:** The Warblers. What a surprise. *eye roll* BUT… I need their kookiness and ND just don't cut it for this. I'm sorry…

**Words:** 701

* * *

The Law of Averages is basically the mathematician's way of explaining karma – that in the end, some sort of balance will occur. That if you have too much bad, something good is more likely to happen to even it out – and the inverse.

David was wondering whether the same could be said for sanity… and if he was the only sane one purely because probability dictated that they couldn't _all_ be crazy!

Though he wasn't sure if this were good or not. Perhaps it was better to be insane… If you were insane, you could just take off all your clothes and run around naked and have no one bat an eyelid…

Okay, maybe he wasn't quite as sane as he would have others believe. But, compared to the cacophony of Warblers surrounding him? He had to be there to fulfil this Law.

It had started, as always, relatively normally (the thing with the Warblers was, there were so many of them, and they had such pent-up energy, that it really didn't take much at all to set them off!). Maybe slightly unusual in the sense that the Crawford girls were over for rehearsal… so it was much more testosterone-filled than normal. A bit noisier, a bit more excited, perhaps. But, for the moment, it was reasonable. It was all you could expect when you threw a handful of gorgeous, talented young females into the clutches of guys who only see guys 24-7.

David had been sitting aside with Jess in his arms, her unusually-pale face turned into his chest as he rubbed her head. She was tired, a little off… Not overtly sick or anything, but under the weather. All he wanted to do was just curl up with her, and fetch her tea and scones and peanut butter choc chip cookies, and hug a hot water bottle to her stomach.

But then she'd gone to the bathroom. And, when she came back, she was blushing a brilliant red.

"You okay, baby?" David asked, placing a kiss on her temple.

She'd blushed more. "I, um… Yeah. Um… Can I borrow your car?"

"ACT TWO, SCENE FIVE: YOU'RE UP IN THREE MINUTES."

Jess' eyes widened, almost panicky. "Shit."

"What do you need, baby? I can go get it for you." He squeezed her tighter.

"Thank you." Jess leant in close, whispering into his ear.

Somehow, though… David wasn't even sure how exactly it happened… but Niff had been in earshot. God knows how, because he could barely hear the words directly in his ear… But, it was Niff.

And so, barely ten seconds later (who said five-second changes didn't come in handy?), the Aussie and his insane boyfriend were lying in front of David, dressed in full black, humming the Mission Impossible theme.

"Oh, no. No, guys. No. I can barely take you shopping as it is."

Nick just winked at him, as Jeff kept humming. "I have a sister. Trust me, you'll want me on this trip."

At the mention of a trip, Thad commando-rolled through the girls (don't ask) and stopped by Niff. "I'm in. I don't care. I'm coming."

"You're always _coming_," Jeff muttered aside… but the three of them kept singing.

"Fine." David rolled his eyes, before grabbing the shoulder of the first guy walking near them – Trent. He needed someone else sane with him! "We need to go now. Behave, or I'll set Wes and his gavel on you."

Trent blinked at the group, a little confused. "What are we doing?"

Jess just stared at him, tilted her head to the side… which apparently was all the words Trent needed. He always had a pretty strong bond with the Crawford Girls.

"Oh! Don't stress, sweetie – we'll be back soon."

And so, not even given the chance to kiss his girlfriend once more, David was dragged into the garage by the four boys in tow.

And now, David glanced up at the rows of coloured packets in front of him… Overnights, regular, no wings, leak barriers… With three boys dressed as ninjas, four of them alternating between singing the Pink Panther Theme and making obnoxiously loud innuendos… He sighed. It was going to be a _long_ day.

* * *

**Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hi!**

**Really not happy with this one. At all. I'm sorry. But, I'm pressed for time, and, if I want it in today, it's gotta be now. And I has work.**

**Thanks to everyone reading! Sorry I don't even have time for shout-outs - next week!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to dissolve due to the amount of Pepsi Max I drink? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	23. To Walk A Mile

**Prompt:** Can you imagine? By ME (OMG FREAK OUT!)

**Characters:** Nick

**Words: **578

* * *

'_Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.  
Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow.  
Just walk beside me, and be my friend.'  
- Most commonly attributed to Albert Camus._

Can you imagine, just for one day, what it really is like to walk in someone else's shoes?

I am here today, to invite you for just a fleeting moment, into my world.

Society intrigues me. Or, perhaps, it's the definition of normal. Because, what is it? What is the perfect, the standard human being? Two arms, two legs, all that jazz? Sure. We'll take the most commonly occurring number of limbs, of digits, of features, and call that normal. Just like an operating pancreas or fully-functional legs also are described as normal.

So is normality purely statistics? A function of averages?

English should tell me to distinguish between normality and normalcy…

I say, fuck English. Fuck normality, and especially fuck normalcy.

I think essentially it comes down to labels.

But as always, I find myself digressing.

I think my issue with the word normal, the idea of normal, is that… well, there isn't. No two people are exactly the same. Even identical twins have difference in the genomes, purely from random base mutations.

But even with all our uniqueness, our quirks, our individuality… we are all human.

We are all human.

And we all have dignity.

At least, that's what my Catholic upbringing tells me to say.

But, I mean, it's true. Whether you call it dignity, the Holy Spirit, a functioning limbic system… Whatever term you want to give it, if you look into someone's eyes, you can see that they are human. That, no matter how different your past, your circumstances, your views on life, your intelligence quota – there is something, perhaps buried very deep down, that you can see in them, some tiny part of yourself that you can find reflected in any other human you come across.

At least, I hope to God you can.

I need you to understand this. This particular concept. Because, what I am writing today, and for many days and weeks and months – even years, if I must – relies so heavily on this concept.

I think that there is so much to learn out there. But people never stop.

Have you ever thought about that?

When was the last time someone asked you how you were? Did they mean it?

When was the last time _you_ asked someone the same? And actually cared for their answer?

Again, I'm digressing.

I write to you today, an amalgamation of stories. Not just mine, and not just those of the people I live with – but also those of my carers, of my friends…

What unites us all?

It's not, despite what you may wish to believe, our chairs. We can use them to relate to each other, sure, and it is a huge part of how we all found each other. But, we are not defined by them, just like you are not defined by a pair of jeans.

I write to you, to convince you all of our humanity. Of our dignity. How we found it, how we've lost it. Our strengths, our triumphs… and our struggles, our disabilities.

My name is Nicholas Duvall. I have lived in my wheelchair for the past 17 years, and I shall live in it for the rest of my life.

My disability stares you in the face.

What about yours?

* * *

**Hi guys!**

**So, basically the story behind this - I'm a disability support worker. And, a massive conversation with ficdirectory, along with my want to write about my clients and what I do and a whole range of things, spawned this AU in my head (funny that...) and led to this. I'm hoping once I clear up some of my other WIPs, that I can take this and continue with it, because I really do feel that it's a story worth telling. So if I manage to spark some interest - keep an eye out!**

**Also, I'm working on my next LHEC chapter, so that should be out fairly soon :D**

**Thank you again to all my amazing readers, reviewers, etc. Shout-outs to Melissa Motown, Pen Magic, Eraman, Different Child, ficdirectory, Carbon65, GleekMon, WhatKatyDidNext and MuseInMe3!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want, in some strange twist of fate, my pillow to eat ME before I wake up in the morning? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	24. A Drop in the Ocean

**Prompt:** What happens when all the current and former members of ND attend Will and Emma's wedding on Valentine's Day? From MuseInMe3

**Words: **518!

**Characters:** I'm sorry, I tried so hard to do only New Directions… but Wes wanted some attention, so you get Wes and Santana tonight

* * *

They were sitting 100 miles or so from Lima, staring out into the distance.

They were right in front of the lake. In summer it would be big, wild as their hearts, turbulent as the sea, as the seemingly unnatural waves beat against the shore. But now, in the core of winter, a different sort of magic had taken hold. As the temperature dropped, the water calmed, flattened out, and a tiny shimmering of ice began to lay a protective sheen over the wildlife hidden down below.

As the trees began to shiver, dropping their rainbows of bronze and gold to warm their feet, frost began to drip down their bare arms… trickling down, down, down, sometimes splashing on the ground, but mostly remaining as dewed teardrops.

Then there was the thick pea-soup fog, the cream on the top, blanketing the entire area. So thick it prevents sight beyond the edge of your nose, as tangible as a trampoline of grey marshmallow, it whispers, it sings… it beguiles you into forgetting all your pain, your hardship, like a quick walk through a field of lotuses.

Its supernatural beauty just sang of weddings.

And then, there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of dreams and hope and youthfulness, stretching out, dancing along the thin tendrils of the fog overlooking the lake, waltzing and tiptoeing out, touching each and every mind with an oblivious sort of reality before reaching to touch infinity.

Supposedly there was the hushed anticipation of a couple hundred visitors and the lullaby of a string quartet, almost mute in their perfect harmony as their exposition moved into its development… but he was remarkably unaware.

A pair of blondes sat in front of him, every inch of skin they had touching the other. They giggled in between kisses. With a soft "Oh!" of recognition he turned to the fiery beauty with the tough façade next to him.

"This is why I'm here, isn't it?" he asked, with a nod to the pew ahead.

She looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged.

"You could have any girl you want, Santana," he urged. "And, while this is still Ohio, it's the New Directions… But instead you call me in tears. That's why, isn't it? Why you called one of the only men you've managed a stable relationship with. Someone not in New Directions, but close enough. And someone who never broke your trust, never hurt you, never fell into so many of your past mistakes… Someone who, despite everything, will love you and care for you regardless… Am I right?"

Something must have struck some element of truth. He suddenly found his fingers interlaced with hers, the pressure a little too tight to be purely a sign of friendship. "But I want her, Wes."

"I know, baby doll. I know." He changed hands, pulling her right in to him, her head falling right into the familiarity of his shoulder. And as Mendelssohn's Wedding March began to ring out and a tiny tear splashed onto his collar, all Wes could think was, _but you could do so much better_.

* * *

**Hi guys!**

**I'm sorry for the late download(NOT DOWNLOAD YOU IDIOT JUST BECAUSE THERE ARE NO DOWNLOAD LINKS OMFG okay calm down.) LATE UPLOAD (makes more sense). Work, as usual, is ridiculous. But, on top of this, I've gone up to Sydney for the weekend! And so, my Thursday was getting up at 0530, working from 0630-1500, driving home, packing, driving to the airport and coming here. Also sitting on a plane for 1.5 hours before we took off, due to part of the landing mechanisms needing replacement! Gah! But, I'm here.**

**So tonight's upload is thanks to the Sydney Opera House, where most of it was written. And now I'm chilling out in my hotel. Fun times!**

**So, in terms of this, I've never actually been to Ohio... but I figure, it's only, what, 2-3 hours from Lake Erie? But I've only seen photos. So, I hope my little (MASSIVE) spiel on it does it justice... :D**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to turn into a battery and be taken by security when I come home? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	25. The Beautiful Little Fool

**Prompt: **We would receive someone's least favourite ship. We had to write to make that person love it.

**Characters:** I received Finchel. It's a very Rachel-centric one… and I'm not overly satisfied with her characterisation, but I figure she's the type of person that takes a role so seriously she ends up becoming it.

**Words:** 780, but this is already ccut down, and it's late, and here. Have a 780 word drabble :p

* * *

"_That's the best thing a girl can be in this world…"_

Her white dress flapped and fluttered in the wind, the lilts of her voice trilling as if carried on the same breeze, a voice that spoke of insubstantial dreams and broken promises of a future, one where she could know who she was, rather than who she'd have to fuck to get the next role.

How New York had changed her. Where once she had been proud of herself, sure in her talent, strong in her virtues… Now she had become

"… _a beautiful little fool…_"

her worst nightmare. Just one reading to get the role. One tiny reading to see the chemistry between cast and crew. But how quickly one reading had turned into two, and two readings turned into work over dinner, and then, before she knew it, dinner had long been forgotten and the readings were now taking place in the director's bedroom. Because, it was New York. And the best thing to do in New York was

"…_beautiful…_"

to be prepared to do whatever it takes. When you're staring down into the universe, of course you're going to touch it… The trouble was, you can't reach into Krishna's mouth and emerge without broken fingers. Where once she condemned those women, now she had bills to pay and the promise of talent was the promise of finding a needle in the Empire State. Once she'd had standards. But after she'd been swept into the cut-throat world of open relationships, catching the next wave into "whatever it takes" seemed the only way to shore… and then the current took her, throttled her. And now, she did whatever it took to keep her head above water.

"_The best thing…_"

Her voice no longer spoke of money – it spoke of the slums of Lima Heights, the distant memory of hard ground. She was scared – for so long she'd been drifting, always drifting, always floating, always dreaming of steady ground beneath her feet. But she knew the instant she'd hit it, she'd take off running and never look back. Because it was either that or crumble like

"_a beautiful little fool…_"

puff pastry.

Reality finally hit her at The West Egg that night. For so long her past had remained a red string tied to her belt loop. Unlike so many of the dreamers that arose from New Directions, there was no doubt that Rachel Berry had certainly made a name for herself, and she was proud of it, too. All she wanted was to show others how her dreams were spun of gold, how theirs could be too, if only they believed. And so, when Wesley Montgomery's name popped up in the neon lights of the billboard outside, she tugged on the string.

"… _stuck in her daydream…_"

But, almost as if to piss off Newton, the string turned into a tether, and the hot air balloon of her life came crashing in one foul line.

"_Do you ever feel, feel so paper-thin like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?_"

A nose dive into the concrete. Her wings were broken.

"_Even brighter than the moon…_"

No longer was she the firework from Lima, ready to explode at any minute. Now she was

"… _beautiful_…"

nothing but a damn good night and

"… _little…_"

a damn hard worker and a

"… _fool…_"

box of faded photographs.

"_It's always been inside of you…_"

But she didn't have to be. Not anymore. So she took out her phone and hit speed dial. "Finn? I don't want to be a plastic bag."

"Rachel?" There was a heavy sigh. "Why are you calling me? What do you want?"

"All I've ever wanted. To feel like I matter."

"You're famous, Rachel. People sing your name in lights. I bet you barely get time to answer your fan mail… What can I offer?"

His words stung and she slid to the ground amidst pools of cheap beer and tears. "A fool – that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." Her line played over and over in her head… All the wrong choices for all the wrong reasons. She was no longer simply playing a role – Daisy Buchanan had become _her_. "I don't want to be a fool any more, Finn."

"And how exactly can I help with that? We haven't spoken in years."

She watched her dirty reflection crying back at her, biting her lip, running a hand through her hair. "With you, I was solid. With you, I was more than just a pretty face. With you, I knew who I was… I was human."

* * *

**Sorry that I'm late again! It's still not quite midnight here though... Plus, I've been at work and at Sydney and sick on top of all that, so it's been a struggle!**

**... So there's a little bit of Spot-the-Reference here. I wish you luck! Also, I LOVE how I finally don't have any reason to write for the Warblers... and still they sneak in. Though mainly because I wanted Firework, and Telly Leung's version is absolutely perfect for this...**

**But dinner is now calling me. And I wrote it... even if it's not perfect. Though, I think Rachel's always been a little towards the sacrifice-everything-for-her-dreams type, and she changed a LOT in New York... I think Brody broke her a little. Or, well, is starting to. But... I tried? And therefore no one should judge me! Or, well, go for your life on the judging front. It's fanfic :p**

**Ficdirectory, this is for you! And thanks to Different Child for talking this with me and somehow getting me to work out how I was going to make it work...**

**Shout outs to Carbon65, ficdirectory, PenMagic, zimbardooo, Eraman, Melissa Motown, GleekMom, Tara621 and Different Child!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my laptop to explode and give my legs second degree burns? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	26. Not Quite Narnia

**Prompt:** Dalton has an unexpected lockdown during Warbler Rehearsal and the boys cannot leave. From Different Child

**Characters:** Warblers! You have NO IDEA how happy I was for this! And… I think you should know, but ask if you want clarification :p

**Words:** 699

* * *

He hadn't realised how much he needed him until the world went black.

Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but exaggerations are a common side effect of near-paralysing fear.

They'd been in rehearsal. Just an average after school rehearsal. And Wes had suddenly thrown in a my-balls-in-a-vice-A# to grab their attention before hurriedly cutting them off, his face losing colour by the second.

"**Code blue. I repeat, code blue. This is not a drill. Code blue.**"

His stomach dropped. All the practise drills in the world could not have prepared him for this. Flashes of home and his teachers and friends not in choir crowded his vision, but at the same time he saw himself from above, locking and barricading the doors and windows, drawing the curtains, ushering silent Warblers into hiding places…

He didn't re-enter his body until he stepped into the wardrobe, now against the oak doors… Even if a bullet got him, it was bulky enough to keep the rest of the boys safe…

There was a muffled sniffling, and the air around him shifted… He wasn't alone. Reaching out, his hands hit warmth, and suddenly their fingers were interlaced, familiarity and reassurance washing over him with each fleeting squeeze.

_Nick._

Somehow, in a time where there was no thinking, no planning, intuition had lit a path between their hearts like the tiny lights on the floor of a plane walkway… They'd found each other.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Nick whispered back. "You?"

He shuffled over, feeling nothing at first but old uniforms made of dust and the slight vector force from his companion, but still he trusted, still he moved, inch by inch, until finally there was a chest pressed against his, and arms around him, and a neck right in his neck, the chin against his back, the forced-steady breaths and thumping of a heart rushing through his body, mirroring his own… just like they always did. "Fine. I have you."

There was the sound of breaking glass and a scream in the difference. They both jumped, moving closer still.

Nick sniffled again, his breath, despite the horrible hopelessness that accompanied it, sending shivers down his back, the sound jumping down the fine hairs. "I was meant to outlive Clara."

"Hey. You… Don't say that." He stretched back to pull Nick's head back, trying to see any sort of light reflecting in those deep pools of his. "We're… we're okay. I'm here…"

"I know you are. I know. I know." Nick sobbed… There was no sound, but he could feel it in the swelling of his chest, and the patter on his collar.

It was now or never. He did the only thing he could to reintroduce Nick to solid ground.

He started slowly by stepping back, trailing one hand up through Nick's shirt, the other pulling through his hair and down to his jaw, tracing the soft bone right to that joint near his ear. He leant forward, his mouth ghosting right by his ear, feeling the ripples of electricity shoot through his body, then tilting, his lips moving to touch, so gently, so softly, all along his cheek, his jaw, his ear, his neck. He bit down on his ear, grinning at the moan that only _he_ was able to elicit. Then he moved his way back, never lifting his hand from Nick's chest, taking a deep breath before licking around Nick's lips and then pressing his own right against them, slipping his tongue down into Nick's mouth and feeling his actions mimicked… They shared one breath, one thought. It was them and only them.

There was a softness, sure, as one can only expect from two frightened boys in love. But there was also desperateness, an urgency… a what-if, an in-case. So they stood there, exploring the other, bringing a timeless distraction, just bathing in the only thing certain they had – each other.

They didn't notice when the police sirens wailed through the halls. They didn't notice the announcement ending the Code Blue.

They didn't even notice when Trent opened the closet door, amidst wolf-whistles, and promptly shook his head.

"So, who was it that said the closet idea never worked?"

* * *

**Howdy!**

**So, Code Blue was what our school did in lockdown... I think it was introduced when I was in year 11. Basically, we had to hide ourselves out of view from the windows and lock the doors... Never had to utilise it, but the drills were fun!**

**... Also, because somehow my only thought to this was NIFF IN A CLOSET NIFF IN A CLOSET and I just missed writing for the two soooooooooo much... Also because, while I would most gladly LOVE to take this and turn it into something (the prompt, that is) there's no way I could have done it justice in 500-700 words.**

**I cannot WAIT to see what everyone else comes up with though. The Warblers are my babies, all of them... But I am very much looking forward to seeing the others! Though, I may have to remember that Jeff isn't actually Aussie... Do you hear that? That is the sound of my heart breaking...**

**Nah.**

**Like it? Hate it? Want someone to high-five me in the face with a chair? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	27. No Other Road, No Other Way

**Prompt: **Season 1. From ficdirectory… Yep, that was it. So, let's play a game of spot-the-reference! :p

**Words:** 700

**Characters:** Trent. And… (massive inhale) the Tenth Doctor. Oh, dear. Mostly because Carbon65 and myself LOVE the idea of Trent trying to make a sonic screwdriver… and really want a cross-over. So, here you are, have my horrible attempt :p

* * *

Trent looked down at his phone, grinning. Finally, it was ready. And this time, it would work… without the unwanted removal of eyebrows.

He pressed the button.

_Whoomp. Whoomp. Whoomp. Whoomp._

That… No… It couldn't be…

A blue box began to materialise outside Brynmawr.

A tall man stepped out, and Trent's breath caught in his throat. He began to fall forward, his vision creeping inwards.

"Oh, bollocks," the man said, dropping down to catch the teen's body. "Lucky for you, though… I happen to be a doctor. _The_ Doctor, in fact."

The last thing Trent saw was the pale face of the tenth televised reincarnation of The Doctor… before the world went completely black.

* * *

Trent awoke to a pot of steaming tea and a pair of concerned muddy-brown eyes, the whirring of the Tardis in motion swimming through his ears.

"Pardon my rudeness, but I don't believe we've officially met, and this is rather an unorthodox journey, even for my ship… I'm the Doctor, but your reaction before suggests you already knew that."

Trent blinked, accepting the hand up and taking the tea. "I'm Trent. And… I called you… didn't I?"

"You called me?" The Doctor looked over his shoulder, already having leapt to the other side of the ship, as he fiddled with… something. "Called me on what?"

Sheepishly, Trent held out his battered 'sonic screwdriver'.

"That's a mobile phone, isn't it? What century am I in? … Do you honestly think that you could have called me on a mobile phone? Bloody hell, what sort of caveman are you?"

Trent blushed.

"No, you haven't called me, I'm afraid. No reception flying through space and time. Though the Tardis has obviously thought to pick you up… The question is… why?"

"Why what?"

"Yes, why indeed… You must have some role to fulfil. She's been a little altruistic lately. Taking me on too many journeys to save the world. Ain't that right, gorgeous?"

Almost as if in response, the ship suddenly jumped… Not that jumping meant much when Trent had no idea if he were standing or floating or spinning or what the hell his motions were relative to the Earth… but something changed.

The Doctor frowned. "We've entered a different timeline."

"You can tell that from… how?"

He jumped, almost like he'd forgotten his companion. "Different relative velocity. But I was afraid that might happen. You see, time is…"

"A big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff?"

Without a beat, the Doctor smiled. "Couldn't have put it better myself. I _knew_ there was a reason for bringing you along, Trent. And, you see, the Tardis, bless her soul, does have a wee bit of a mind of her own. I believe she's somehow thought to bring you back to a place that chased you to where you are now, but it would appear she's brought you from a different timeline… though I'm also suspecting this may be that somehow by bringing you back to here she's cementing that new timeline for you as a very hard sort of reality…" He shook his head. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"

Trent just stared blankly, for the first and perhaps only time in his life shocked into complete silence… But then there came the familiar whirring sound again, and with a soft thump they were once more standing on solid ground.

"Ah, it appears we've landed. Listen, the sooner we work out where we are, the sooner we work out why you're here, and the sooner we all get to return to your proper timeline." The Doctor pressed a button, and they stepped outside onto tragically straight green grass. "Take a look around and see if you recognise anything for me."

Taking a minute to pinch himself, Trent glimpsed around… There was a school in the background, one he'd never seen before. Over the end of the oval were a group of cheerleaders in bright red uniforms, with an all-too-familiar blonde woman screaming through a megaphone.

"**You think this is hard? I have hepatitis. **_**That's**_** hard**."

Trent shuddered, not entirely sure why it just felt like he'd been thrown in a bath of dread. "Sue Sylvester. This must be McKinley High."

* * *

**Hello, my darlings!**

**So... First of all, I have a huge goodbye to send to GleekMom, MuseInMe3 and Melissa Motown, all of whom, over the past 2 weeks, have decided for their own reasons to drop out. These girls have been so inspirational to write with, and we're going to miss them! Hopefully, the 3 of us remaining can keep this going a little while longer. But, girls, it's been an honour, and I wish you the absolute best.**

**Now, my apologies for this... It's one of those things I desperately want to extend but don't currently have time for... but it's on the list. Hopefully after I've watched more Doctor Who as well... Nine was my first, but I've only seen a few episodes since Tennant, and I haven't seen any of Ten since they actually showed on ABC way back when... Actually, I think it was with Rose, because I don't remember the other companions very well at all... So, yes, a long time ago. So hopefully I can... achieve him a little better than here - and also without a word limit! But, it's an intro, if nothing else.**

**And, I mean, there has to be a good reason why Trent was at McKinley...**

**Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed this! Shout-outs to AweSoMeLAgain, MuseInMe3, Pen Magic, ficdirectory, Eraman and GleekMom!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my backpack to turn into a firework display... with me still attached? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	28. The Sweeping Insensitivity

**Prompt: **Be Prepared (thesauruses recommended) – by yours truly

**Words:** 1,115… Oops…

**Characters:** Nick and Jeff… because my horrible mind wanted to do this, for whatever reason. Call it genre-drifting?

* * *

"Jeff… Jeff…"

It was dark, he knew that much. Dark and cold.

"Jeff, darlin', you need to wake up."

"Shut it, you!"

His back ached, his arms held behind his back by something, and his wrists… were they bound?

"_Nick…_"

The warmth beside him… his boyfriend?... shifted, and there was an increase in pressure as lips pressed against his cheek before a head nuzzled down.

"Hey! You two!" And the other voice, cold and foreign… angry and terrifying. "Knock it off!" Something hard and frozen and round jammed into his back… a gun. "Faggots."

There was a gun at his back. A gun. A gun.

What. The. Hell.

"OI! BOSS NEEDS YA!" came a fourth voice, disembodied, but still shrill enough that each word sent a spike of pain through his already-throbbing head.

The gun thrust into him once more, before disappearing. "Alright, fags. I'll be back in a minute. Now, no funny business while I'm gone, you hear?" Then, like the fragility of life had done before, it also disappeared with a loud bang of a slamming door.

His eyes were slowly starting to adjust to the darkness, but they betrayed him, revealing nothing but the tears he could hear falling from Nick's eyes and a room stretching to infinity or ending right out of reach… he couldn't tell. He shivered as a sense of foreshadowing hit him, right in the pit of his stomach and the tip of his head.

"Jeff, we don't have much time… What do you remember?"

"We were… at the club… and then here. I don't know. Are you alright?"

"Well, I've been in better scenarios, but I'm okay with what I've got," he said, that ironic smirk, the one he wore to mask how uncomfortable or scared he was, was written over his face. "Nothing's broken, at least. I'm still breathing. You?"

"The same…" Jeff rolled his shoulders as far as his tied wrists would allow. "We've been kidnapped, haven't we?"

"Definitely seems that way. No idea why though…" Nick shivered. "They're nasty, not mucking around… They… He…" He felt him shudder again. "We're alive. But I don't know for how much longer."

Jeff stiffened… had Nick seen someone killed?

"So we need to be prepared for whatever they decide…"

"What do you suggest we - ?"

He cut off as they heard footsteps, right above them, thumping down some hidden staircase.

"I love you, Jeff. Always remember that."

"Love you too."

They somehow shuffled closer together, both leaning on the other… praying they'd make it out.

The footsteps grew louder and louder, with the ghost of light flickering down from a door above… There was the man… He was tall, he could tell that, but all that he could see was the crack illuminated through the door… Those eyes, cold and emotionless.

And teeth. The man was smiling.

"Alright, baby fags. Turns out, we got the wrong guys."

"You don't say?" Nick muttered.

It didn't go down well. "Don't forget who's holding the gun!" He said, aiming a kick at Nick's stomach. Jeff's blood turned to ice – hard to believe, as it was already freezing – at the whimper of pain. "Now, before you interrupt me again… We have a game to play with you. You see, you're just kids. And even though you're pretty little fairies, the boss has decided to show you his mercy."

"You call this _mercy_?" Nick said, before crying out again.

"Your bitch has a little bite, kid," the man turned to leer at Jeff. "Keep him quiet, or I'll shoot you both."

Nick shuddered at a third kick… but nothing came out his mouth.

"Good boy," he crooned. "So. Our little game. Either of you heard of Russian Roulette?"

Jeff nodded silently, feeling Nick beside him mimicking…

"I have here one gun. It has ten rounds. It has one bullet. There are two of you."

"You want us both to take a shot?"

"LET ME FUCKING FINISH IF YOU WANT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN!" The man breathed heavily… but made no move to injure either of them. This time. "No. The boss has decided it would be cruel for both of you to. Instead, I need one of you to volunteer. Then we let whoever lives go. You are never to speak of this event. You will be blindfolded, and we will drop you off in the street. There will be no way of identifying any of us. But, any attempts to run, to shoot, to do anything other than play our game… will end with the two of you dead before you can say the other's name… and you'll be dumped in the lake under a tonne of cement. Do I make myself clear?"

They nodded.

"You have a minute to decide. Choose quickly."

Before Jeff even had time to think, Nick's mouth was open again. "I'll do it." Nick struggled to his knees, and then his feet, and suddenly Jeff could have forgotten about the man with the gun, about how both of them could die… He couldn't let his boyfriend sacrifice himself for him…

"No, babe, you can't. I don't trust them – they're all bullets, they have to be, they're lying, you can't do it, you just can't."

"Jeff, my parents have lost a child and soon another."

"So don't make it a third!"

"Baby, trust me. It'll be okay… It's a one in ten shot. But… I've always wondered what my purpose is."

"It's not to die!"

"No. I can see it. It's to protect others… to protect you. So you have to let me do it."

"No, Nick!"

"I love you. I have always loved you. I always will."

"I can't let you!"

Nick sighed, turning around to have his bindings cut. "You have to trust me. It'll be okay, Jeff. I promise."

"Awww, how sweet." The man thrust the gun into Nick's hands with a grimace. "Hurry up. I don't like you fairies tainting this room."

Jeff wanted to rip the gun from Nick's hands, to put it in his own, anything to keep his baby alive… but his hands were still tied. And so when Nick leant down, cupping his wet cheek, lips pushing themselves against his mouth, all Jeff could do was throw all of himself into the kiss, his soul, his life, his breath, his consciousness… Any sort of prayer or luck he had to spare, he wished onto him.

Then Nick stared down into the barrel, holding it against his forehead, before turning to their captor, flames fixed in his eye.

"I'm ready."

With those words came a loud bang, and the love of Jeff's life was no more.

* * *

**Hi guys...**

**Please don't hate me? LOL I honestly don't know why I wanted to kill a character... but, I did. So... here.**

**Feel free to send me all your hate. :P**

**So, a HUGE WELCOME to PenMagic, MyMagentaPeach (formerly AweSoMeLAgain) and Tara621! These guys are brilliant writers, and I can't wait to see what they do with the prompts!**

**Thanks to everyone that reads this! Shout outs to animelover5000, Carbon65, PenMagic, ficdirectory, GleekMom and MyMagentaPeach!**

**Like it? Hate it (most likely!)? Want me to play Russian Roulette, only with soft drink, being forced to drink whichever one I get without taking insulin to compensate for the sugar? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	29. Three Little Monkeys

**Prompt:** Hearing loss – from Tara621

**Words: **756, ignoring the fingerspelling.

**Characters:** … I've always had this image of Wes as a disability support worker. So the scenario I've placed him in, was actually something I had to do in my own training. It was… a very eye-opening experience, because you never really think about how much you NEED those senses until you suddenly aren't allowed to. We only had time for about 15 minutes of this, but it was honestly one of the hardest 15 minutes I've ever had… So, I decided that Wes was going to do this with the Warblers! Also, while I've never had a scenario this crazy at work, it was really helpful in learning the limitations to communicating that many people have, so it helped just trying to think of various ways of overcoming them all… and also, the importance of things even as small as touch. But, more on that in my ramblings after the shot!

* * *

I look down at the page in front of me, its bold text staring right back at me. I'm about to open my mouth and relay its message, when I remember that I'm not meant to have the ability to speak.

I glance around my tiny circle. Santana is to my left, shiny black hair bouncing off her shoulders like water does rocks – but, unlike a waterfall, it's restrained by the single elastic strap of her nightcap. I want to tell her how beautiful she looks, the way she leans on my shoulder, a finger playing around my knee… but I am not allowed to speak. Just like she is not allowed to see.

Trent sits on my right, his hands fidgeting around a pair of heavy earphones… He has momentarily lost the ability to hear.

It's a strange exercise. We have a sheet with a few sentences to communicate around the circle. But between us all, we have one deaf, one blind, and one non-verbal. This is honestly one of the most bizarre forms of Chinese Whispers I've ever attempted… Though, in truth, the blank silence the room is giving me (and it's nice to know we aren't the only ones struggling!) makes a nice change, and I think I've learnt what to do in future, if the guys get out of hand…

Supposedly we have an advantage. I work with people with all sorts of communication difficulties. Trent knows sign language. And Santana… is Santana.

But, it's hard.

I'd give anything to write my message down. I suppose technically it isn't breaking rules – I know several people that use communication boards and other AAC's to their advantage – but, it makes it too easy… Instead, I slowly, painstakingly, use finger-spelling to get it across to Trent.

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Trent looks confused. "Don't it always seem to go you don't know what you got til it's gone?" he asks, a little haltingly, hands pressed against his ears. "Wow, I can't hear myself. You have _no_ idea how utterly bizarre that is!"

Santana just raises an eyebrow… or, at least, her blindfold shifts so I think she does. "Joni Mitchell? Really?"

All I can do is nod.

"He says, yes," Trent relays for me. They're catching on pretty quick.

"I _can_ feel him, gay Alec Baldwin," she shoots back, "but your unnecessary pity is endearing."

I hit her. Though even if he could hear, I doubt Trent would be offended by the 'insult'.

And now it's Trent's turn. He stares at me. "Am I allowed to speak?"

I bit my lip and tilt my head to the side… The Venn diagram between deafness and the ability to speak are not two separate circles…

**U  
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He nods. "Commctions lie breeveng. Yrnt alwaysaware oit bu ynow whenis gone!"

Again, I nod. And Santana… frowns? "Something… is like… breathing? You're not…"

I sign to him to repeat the end.

"Yrnt alwaysaware oit bu ynow whenis gone!"

"Not always aware, but you know when it's gone?"

_Pretty damn good_, is all I can think. I ask Trent for the first word.

"Cmmunction."

"Oh!" She grins.

And we're nearly there. But Santana's presents a difficulty. She doesn't have paper – she gets to make up her own message. But while I can hear, I can't speak, and while Trent can speak, he can't hear. Santana doesn't know sign language… and is growing more and more frustrated as her mind struggles to fetch an idea.

Finally, I decide to use Trent.

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He nods. "Say it out loud and Wes will spell it."

Santana gives a wicked grin, before bending down and whispering in my ear.

I groan. Of all the things in the world…

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"I'm not a pheasant plucker."

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"I'm a pheasant plucker's son."

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"I'm only plucking pheasants."

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"Til the pleasant fu – "

It takes Trent slipping up and swearing for the spell to break. Santana rips off her blindfold, Trent throws his headphones to the ground, and I crack up laughing.

It's a fun experiment. It really is. And, as both of them said to me later, very eye-opening. But also, as San so eloquently put it, "it's as hard as the men of Dalton collectively during a Matt Bomer visit."

I've never had anything quite this difficult at work. But, just remember… no matter what the ability, what the language, however someone speaks… you can always reach out to them. Trying to understand someone is one of the most powerful tools you have in your power – be sure to use it whenever you can.

* * *

**So, I mentioned work stories up above… There's a few things that stand out to me, and, yes, I'm going to ramble, because it's 3.30 in the morning and I can't sleep, and because it's been quite awhile since I've had a good ramble, and my job is just one of those things I cannot _help_ but ramble over…**

**I guess the first thing is actually more about assumptions, though it's tied in to communicating. I definitely had to learn the hard way not to judge someone's intelligence… My first ever shift, I was working with this gorgeous woman, Tina. All I'd been told was that she was non-verbal – which, for someone who at the time had not had any proper experience with people with disabilities, instantly translated to little intelligence. So I was meal-assisting her… and the way I was speaking… See, if people won't understand you, you adapt to suit that. I was using barely a form of speech above baby talk – really encouraging, really focused on the tone of my voice, and being horribly condescending… Then, the next morning, the staff explained to me that she was getting upset over her ex… She could indicate yes by looking upwards. And had understood absolutely everything I'd said to her the night before. It was… horrible. I've never forgotten that. And I've always made sure to ask people questions and not assume anything about them, if I can. I can't imagine what it would be like, having people constantly doing that, treating you like a child, with you unable to do anything other than cry or purse your lips…**

**Because of that as well, I think, I'm always more careful looking for other methods of communication. One of the women I'm always around _can_ vocalise, but it's very hard to understand her sometimes. And I now know her so well that I can tell if she's indicating yes or no by either the direction she looks, the way her mouth moves, or how many times she blinks. You just… learn to look out for little cheat tricks that people can do, I suppose. But just because they can't speak doesn't mean a person cannot communicate.**

**And the other thing is… which I think is more relevant… Difficulties with speech are associated with many conditions that can leave someone in a wheelchair. I was at uni once and a friend asked me to help him – he was talking to a woman in a chair and was really struggling to understand what she was saying. So I want to say – it's not an uncommon problem, so don't feel bad if that situation happens to you. Also, these people will know that they have troubles – so the worst thing you can do is to smile and nod. You can ask them to repeat themselves, or speak more slowly, and you can repeat the bits you understand back until it forms a full sentence… But don't give up (unless they do) and don't pretend to understand!**

**… Yeah. Just in case you ever come across someone in a chair with speech difficulties and you find yourself wondering what to do…**

**… Okay, I need to sleep. Enough about work!**

**Thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing, etc etc. Congrats to Tara on her first prompt! And shout-outs to MyMagentaPeach, NiffAreForever, Tara621, Eraman, Pen Magic and ficdirectory!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want Call Me Maybe to be stuck on permanent repeat in my head? (At least it's the Scott Hoying/Luke Edgemon collab…) Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	30. Nobody Said It Was Easy

**Prompt:** Sorry seems to be the hardest word to say

**Words:** 626

**Characters:** Beiste

* * *

The silence was thick like a liver, palpable in the presence of failure, of disease, of bad tidings. The leather couch, the framed certificates, the smile with that bright red lipstick, all of it should mean welcome, should mean comfort, should mean home… but home was only a reminder of… of _him_, of her blindsightedness, of the shattered bricks, the remnants of her castle on a cloud. And if this room, this person, gave anything to her, it was not the solace Scheuster led her to expect, but instead just an eternal emptiness.

"Shannon."

She looked up into those eyes, blue like his, warm like his once were, inviting, caring, probing. Though she could almost laugh bitterly if they were expecting to find anything, any trace of emotion, of humanity, of strength under her skin – she had about as much in her as a bottomless bucket.

"You've been coming to see me for weeks now."

She forced a smile, feeling her Walmart lipstick flake off against her crooked tooth. It was a motion she'd been so used to doing recently – she could almost beguile herself into believing it was true. Everyone else seemed to think she could be happy.

"And yet, every week, it's always the same. You sit there, you smile, you talk. But still I feel like I know nothing about you."

Unsurprising. She barely knew a thing about herself any more. Where once she had prided herself on her strength, now even _that_ belonged to him.

"Until you're ready to open yourself up, there's nothing I can do for you." The psychiatrist's eyes changed, darkened a little deep behind, some sort of sadness reaching out for her with tiny tendrils, yearning to connect, to pull her back out of her shell.

She blinked.

"I'm going to write a prescription for you. It's for an antidepressant. One tablet every morning. It'll make that beautiful smile of yours that little bit less shallow, less fake."

She nodded, carefully folding the crisp white paper with the signature, the promise of some sort of progress now tangible.

"But, Shannon, the drugs aren't the answer. I've no doubt they'll help you, because this self-hate stems from something much deeper than you'll allow me to dig. But you need to open up. Open yourself up. You realise that what happened was not your fault, right?"

Again, she shrugged. "May not have been, punkin. But I let it happen and that's what makes the difference."

The psychiatrist sighed, and she almost felt bad for her. Would have felt sorry for her, if she could let herself be capable of feeling any sort of emotion.

"Sorry."

"It's not me that you should be apologising to, Shannon."

Silence reached out again and smacked her in the face, put its cold hands around her neck and squeezed for dear life. She didn't have the energy to fight.

"Our time is just about up for today. Now, I'm going to switch roles, and I'm giving _you_ some homework."

"I'll make sure my dogs don't go near it."

And the psychiatrist smiled. "I've never been able to get you to say the words, so perhaps you can write them. Shannon, I want you to write yourself a letter. In it, I want you to write down your regrets, your worries… and then, I want you to apologise to _yourself_. You need to forgive yourself, Shannon. You need to let go. And _that_ is the true measure of your strength." The doorbell rang, and they stood up. "I'll see you next week."

"Thanks, punkin."

As she jumped into her truck and pulled away from the white building, her mind sat back on that leather couch, tears pouring down her face.

"I'm sorry that I failed you."

* * *

**Hey hey hey!**

**So, how are you all?**

**I am DONE with exams. At least, done until November. One semester left of uni! I'm also back to working a heap... Um... There have been adventures with cute boy (namely going to Sydney with him and 7 other friends), I finished first semester of 3rd year uni, I HAVE TIME, I've applied for jobs... I'm sure there's more to rant about.**

**Oh, and I get to sing with Dom Barnes. Who plays the lovely Trent. No biggie.**

**Yep. That's about it! And back to writing I go!**

**So, you get an update. Should go to sleep - I am at work, at a new house, with 3 clients and me - it's independent living house which is AMAZING but I'll probably tell you more tomorrow as I ramble... but, yeah, shift restarts in... 7 hours. So not too bad. But anyhoo.**

**... Even my ramblings are shocking.**

**Oh, and I cut off most of my hair. And then dyed part of it purple. It was meant to be blue but it stuck to my hairdresser's hands better than my hair! So purple it is :p**

**... Yep, think that's about it for now!**

**It's so amazing to be back though. I've really missed writing! So I hope this is an okay update to get me back into it :-) AND, it's not the Warblers. I honestly don't know what's gotten into me!**

**Thank you to everyone that's stuck with me! Shout outs to Tara621, MyMagentaPeach, Carbon65, ficdirectory, PenMagic and Eraman!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to fall into the washing machine? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	31. The Kissing Rock

**Prompt: **The right place for love

**Words: **624

**Characters: **Niff!

* * *

_On a cold December, so they say,  
Amidst the snow and frozen rain,  
This rock on which you stumble, sit,  
And there you share true love's first kiss._

He stopped and stared out the window, watching the leaves filter down through the trees, like the colours circling around the sink when Winter pulls the plug and Summer flushes down the drain of the world.

There was one tree in particular that stood out from the rest. It too, like its neighbours and friends and family, changed from green to amber before shaking itself finally of the haunts of a past year. Its arms were bare and cold, twisting and turning over itself, as did its visible roots, forming a tiny knot out the side like a knee, with branches reaching around the side to welcome you into its embrace. Many birds seemed to make it their residence – yet there was this stillness about it always, a type of wisdom that radiated around the grounds, made you question what it had been told, whose secrets it was keeping…

Without realising it, he was on the winding path, gravel and the few dried leaves crunching underfoot like the caramelised top of a crème brûlée, satisfying and promising of brightness to come.

The old myth played in his head… the one about the knot and the rock by its feet, the armchair and footstool.

_You clasp their hands and hold them tight,  
Not in fear, no, not in fright.  
Their lips you press against your own  
And never shall you be alone._

He stopped when he saw the blonde lying against the trunk.

"Hi."

Jeff smiled back, shifting over on his seat. "Hi, yourself." He opened his arms. "Want to sit?"

Nick nodded, folding himself down into Jeff's side, his head falling into Jeff's shoulder. It was cold outside, the fog blanketing the grounds, with tiny flakes of snow dusting down around them like white icy butterflies. He couldn't help but admire how they caught themselves, clinging to each individual strand of Jeff's hair, splitting the grey light into tiny rainbow halos. Yet somehow he was surrounded in warmth, comfortable just breathing in Jeff's aura.

He took in a deep breath, trying to draw in some courage. And he opened his mouth, as Jeff did exactly the same.

"I need to tell you something."

He smiled, and Jeff laughed. "You first."

Jeff nodded with a gulp. "Look, this is… a little hard…" He ran a hand through his blonde locks, that sign of stress that Nick had grown to love. "You know how I'm… a little… confused about… well, about who I am?"

Nick lifted the strong hand from his neck, gave it a tight squeeze of encouragement, felt the fleeting pressure of the grip back.

"Well, I've been doing some thinking lately…"

He moved in closer, breath catching in his throat… Could it really be? "What did you come up with?"

"It was something Wes said, actually," he admitted. "He said that it didn't matter how I labelled myself… how I let other people pigeonhole me. What matters is that I'm happy."

"Good advice." Nick couldn't help but smile. "And what makes you happy?"

Jeff pulled his hand out, and his tremble was obvious. "You."

Nick's stomach was no longer – it had grown wings and flown out amongst the falling snow and icy leaves. He grabbed back the hand, his other reaching out to Jeff's cheek. "Well, that's a relief. Because Wes said basically the same thing to me." Then without any thought, just trusting… not even trusting, just _knowing_… that it was right – he pulled Jeff's face down and, like every night in his dreams, finally melted into the sweetness of his best friend's lips.

* * *

**Hi guys!**

**... So, I felt like writing Niff. Hope there's no disapproval? **

**Also because, my God, I'm getting frustrated. Have I told you all about cute boy? I went to Sydney with him and a few other people. He was in my hotel room, with another friend of mine... and being so utterly adorable the entire time. And, I swear, it's one of the hardest weeks I've ever had, especially _knowing_ that he likes me back and not being able to do a thing about it. But, I mean, he decided to run around Sydney with me so that I wouldn't be the only one stressed when rushing for the plane and _ugh_ he's just so sweet and lovely... Uh... So yes. Writing Niff is my way of getting that out :p ... Really doesn't help that cute boy is haunting my dreams!**

**... I'll stop now!**

**Thanks to everyone for putting up with my silence during semester, for coming back and reading this. Thanks especially to PenMagic, ficdirectory and Tara621!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to fall into the diving pool with my sister tomorrow? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	32. Trying to Freeze Hell

**Prompt: **Everyone is fighting

**Words:** 786… Woops…

**Characters: **Sam

* * *

He can't even look them in the eyes as he presses the crisp rolled notes into his parent's hands. Thirty-one dollars. The results of tips from a busy Thursday night. And it'll barely pay the groceries for the next week, let alone gas for the car, and the rent due next week, and Stevie's excursion tomorrow…

His mother sounds shocked as she pushes his hand away. "We can't take this, Frog."

It's _that_ name. The one for when he's sick. The one for when they have to move yet again. The one for big scary announcements, like when Mom lost her job. It's the name they use to hide the shaking, the fear, the emotion, in their voice.

When he leaves the table wordlessly, paper still curled in his fingertips, he runs straight to Stevie and Stacey's room, strumming the guitar and singing so that they can't hear the tears dripping down, soaking through and splashing on the foundations of the house.

* * *

"_Sir, no. You… No, you can't. I have three children and a wife. We have bills. We need food, and clothes. I just… Isn't there anything you can do?" It was 2 in the afternoon. His father didn't know he was home, didn't try to hide his voice, his conversation. "… Alright. I understand. Thank you, sir…"_

* * *

The next night he tries again. It's more tonight – Friday nights always have the generous tips. It's take-away night for most people, and it's late, and half of them are so drunk they can't tell the difference between a ten and a twenty dollar bill and are too hungry, bored or stoned to wait for any change.

It's a little after 1 in the morning when he sneaks in the front door. His father is waiting on the dusty couch with holes and the foam – at least, what's left of it – poking through the seams. Again, he stares at his feet as he pulls out a little over a hundred and holds it out.

But his father smiles – not laughs, though that sound is about as absent in the house in the last half-year as the gunshots had been when they'd moved out of Detroit. "What's this, kiddo? You paying us board now?"

Still he holds out his hand.

"It's a nice thought, but I can't take your hard-earned money."

Sam sighs.

"Sit down, kid."

Despite his best efforts, as the springs creak underneath his shivering frame, a hot lump of coal forms in his throat, forcing a tear out of his eyes, down his cheek, his nose, running all over his face, but he couldn't draw any warmth from it.

"I know it's hard. We've always had to work hard. But we're going to get through this. We always do."

* * *

_Dinner that night was potatoes and half a hot dog each. "I've had to take a pay cut at work," his father told them, "so money's going to be a little tight for a while. Just for a while. But, I promise you this. On Sunday we'll have a feast."_

* * *

Still the tears stream down his face, but he's in too deep now. The words, they have to come out, even if it means an argument. Even if it means waking the house. "Did you really think I wouldn't know?"

His father tries to keep a straight face, but his darkening eyes, visible even in the flickering lamp, betray him. "Know what, son?"

He sighs again, almost a groan. "That you have no job. That we have no money."

At least he has the sense not to deny it, to try to explain.

"How long did you think you could keep it from me?"

His father closes his eyes, and Sam can see how much this is draining him. "Sam… It wasn't… isn't… your burden to bear."

He clenches his fist. Now isn't the time to lose control. "But it _is_, Dad. I'm part of this family. You have to let me play my own role. And if that's giving you my money, you have to let me. Because even you have to admit that taking my money is better than the bank taking our home."

His father blanches. He doesn't want to think why.

"So, please. Think of it as a loan, if you want. But I don't want this. So please take it."

And finally the weight of the paper is gone from his pocket. "Thanks," his father croaks. "We'll talk about this in the morning, alright?"

Sam nods, leaving for his bedroom.

"You're a great kid. I'm sorry for what it's doing to you."

But Sam has already shut down, his entire exhausted consciousness solely focused on not letting them see him cry.

* * *

**I have to thank Tara621 for this - I just read one of her Sam updates, and it just... spurred this, I suppose.**

**So, for those I haven't told, Sam's story is, like so many of us out there, really close to my heart. A couple of years ago, I was the only one in my household with income, and we didn't qualify for Youth Allowance or any sort of government help. For 6 months. And, as a casual worker and full-time uni student, work wasn't easy for me to come by either. My parents were brilliant and tried so hard to keep that from me. And we did have the redundancy payouts, and family help, and the debt we incurred wasn't anywhere near worth the value of a house. But those 6 months are one of the hardest that I've ever been through. And so... I suppose I just wanted to write a little of that tonight?**

**It really is amazing, the strength of humanity though. I'm so blessed, and I'm constantly reminded of that fact, but during something like the GFC, you really are reminded of the kindness of strangers, what an effect that can have. People really did band together during that time, and we've all emerged stronger because of it.**

**If this has raised any emotions, or if you ever need to talk in general - I'm always around. Even if I'm not writing. You can PM me here, or hit me up on Tumblr, and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm able. Whatever it is, you aren't alone. You are beautiful and strong, and you can get through this.**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to lick my laptop charger? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	33. So Much Water So Close To Home

**Prompt: **Whose little boy is that?

**Words:** 674

**Characters:** Santana, Sebastian, various others that cameo

* * *

_It sat at the edge of the lake. She wandered over, looking at the strange white thing, watching the water break into tiny ripples as it splashed over its sides, the way the light shimmered as it broke through the water and reflected back off the coloured tip._

_As the little girl walked closer, its features became more and more obvious. But it wasn't until she was sitting by the banks reaching to pull it from its coffin in the sand that she realised what it was._

_A human finger._

_She ran as fast as she could, screaming all the way._

* * *

Santana yawned as she pushed through the door, coffee slowly working itself through her body. "Smythe."

"Lopez," her partner nodded back.

"What have we got today?"

Sebastian reached across to steal the paper cup from her desk – unorthodox, sure, but that was just how they functioned. "You haven't heard?"

She shook her head.

"Duvall-Sterling girl found a finger this morning. Teams are working on the river as we speak."

"And…? It's a finger. They fall off all the time." Santana dropped down into her desk chair, shuffling various piles of paper around to gain access to her laptop. "Doesn't mean homicide."

He sighed. "So far, we've found three fingers, both hands which, might I add, are missing all fingers, a foot sans toes and a knee. So unless there's some lizard-hybrid that can regrow limbs running around Manhattan, probably means that we're needed. Sorry hon."

"_Mierda!_" She groaned. "Before coffee? Really?"

The smirk that, even after all these years, hadn't been lost on Sebastian's face only angered her more. "What's that in your hand?"

"Piss," she answered without thought.

"Funny. It smells like coffee."

"This is New York. Morning hasn't started until I've downed at least three cups." She groaned again, shaking out her hair and pulling it back into a rough bun. "So what's the plan?"

"Dredge the lake. Wait for more things to turn up. The usual."

"Want me to start combing through Missing Persons?"

"No." Sebastian's eyes were burning, though she wasn't entirely sure why. "Neil's team's all over it."

There was something he wasn't saying though… The fuel, bright blue behind those cool eyes, the information flickering through the gas. "What aren't you telling me?"

He shrugged, stealing the coffee cup again.

"So what is it you want me to do?"

He bit his lip before reaching out a hand for her shoulder. His hand was warm, gentle – but surprising. As always was whenever that softer, caring side came out.

"What?"

"Jessica."

Nick and Jeff's girl. The one who'd found the finger. "Is she okay?"

He hesitated. "I… know what this means. But could you talk to her?"

"Why me?" But she didn't really need to ask to know. Her past history explained it all. "Never mind. Where are they?"

He stood up, and Santana began to steal herself as they set off down the hallway to the waiting area.

* * *

_She was sitting on the leather couch, one of those huge squishy ones that always seemed to hunger for human, that you just sank into, like it was trying to hug you. It was springy, and normally she'd be turning it into her practise-trampoline. But not today._

_They walked up to her, the adults in their dark suits. A man with tired eyes and a woman with a sad smile._

_The woman bent down to talk to her… but inside she burned with questions._

* * *

"Nick. Jeff." She hugged her old school-friends before turning to the little girl on the armchair, crouching down and pushing back a ringletted lock from her hair. "Hi, Jessie! How are you?"

When Jessica turned her eyes up to meet her own, she was shocked at the familiarity of the burning deep within, so similar to her own so many lives ago. "Whose hand did I find today?"

She gasped, tried to force back the tears welling at the small child's questions, too mature for what her age should allow.

"Whose little boy is it?"

* * *

**... Because of course this is what my mind comes up with.**

**So it's a little rushed tonight - I have to leave for work in about 15 minutes... I'm doing an active night tonight, so... it'll be a long night :p Hoping that I can get some writing or something done tonight though!**

**I'm... intrigued by this though. I love how something so little, such a small prompt, makes me want to write more and more and more and more. So there's a little snippet here, but if there's enough interest, it could be fun digging more and writing more too :-)**

**As for the title, it's taken from a short story (by a guy whose name I can't remember) - the movie Jindabyne was based on it, as was Paul Kelly's song _Everything's Turning To White_ - brilliant song, horribly creepy story that I need to get to reading! But I'm going to keep pointing you over to the song because... ah. Just amazing.**

**Thanks to everyone ****for reading, reviewing, all that jazz! Shout outs to PenMagic, Tara621, ficdirectory and Eraman!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to trip over someone's bed tonight? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	34. Like Coca-Cola stock

**Prompt:** Write in a genre or voice you are not comfortable with

**Words:** 680

**Characters:** Huntbastian.

Now… a warning. This wasn't my intention when giving the prompt, but I was thinking, and… there's not much that I'm not comfortable writing in (other than New Directions but… eh.) And so, I was left with either a massive argument… or **smut**. Hence there is a definite up-rating for this, even though it's probably actually quite tame. Though I've never really written or read much of this so… well, I tried. Which was the whole point of the exercise, really. Right? :p

* * *

The text glared at him from the page, bulging and shimmering and blinking with each throbbing heartbeat, seeming to grow in clarity despite the near absence of light. He groaned quietly, bringing a fist to rub his forehead, his eyes never leaving the heavy textbook on his lap.

It didn't go unnoticed by his roommate.

"Shut it, Smythe. Trying to sleep here."

"And I'm trying to study. Because not all of us have a military career to fall back on, Clarington, and unlike some I actually need to _work_."

He didn't mean to bite back so harshly (_crudely_). Hunter sat up in bed, frowning. "What's wrong, Seb?"

He didn't answer.

"Is it your head again?"

"Go back to bed, Clarington."

Even in the darkness he could _see_ that smirk. That one that (_he'd never admit_) was so similar to his own. "I _knew_ it."

Again, Sebastian ignored him. But his heart couldn't ignore the sudden drop in his own bed as Hunter sat down behind him, wrapping his arms through his shoulders and up into his hair.

"You know what my advice is going to be, right?"

"_Casse-toi_. I'm not your patient."

"Pity," Hunter purred, "because I thought you liked it when I brought out my stethoscope? Or maybe it was just the novel way of taking your temperature…"

Sebastian shivered, pushing into the weight of Hunter's fingers in his hair, his scalp, the firm circles slowly starting to work down into his head.

"And, besides," Hunter said as he began to nuzzle down into his shoulders with his chin, "I can think of a perfect way to help a headache. Sleeping afterwards optional."

And then came the kisses, starting as the mere hint of lips brushing against his neck, his back, his shoulders, Hunter pushing his shirt up and over and off as he pressed harder, kissing here, tongue lashing out to that sweet spot there, teeth scraping down across near his jaw, nipping at his earlobe, biting down and latching on and forming a vacuum seal with his lips, sucking all the tiny vessels and nerve endings and damn, for a guy "not even remotely bi-curious" (_my ass_) he sure knew how to do this well. So, _so_ well.

Sebastian moaned.

"Lie down."

Hunter swung himself out to the side as Sebastian collapsed back onto the bed, before climbing on top, straddling him, tracing messages with his tongue onto his chest as his fingers scrambled to push down his tracksuit pants and his boxers, still smirking as Sebastian let out a shaky sigh. And down he worked, teeth pinching tiny bits of skin in a path straight down his chest, his stomach, his snail trail, down, down, hands moving everywhere, at his back pulling him closer, squeezing his cheeks, running through his hair, nails stroking up and down his inner thighs as he dropped the grin, opening his mouth and taking Sebastian in.

"_Hhhh_Hunt…"

He didn't let go, sucking and stroking and swallowing and tickling _just_ in all the right places, around and around, skin sliding through his mouth, warm breath exciting him even further, and the liquid starting to bubble deep within his gut, his abs tightening already.

"Need…"

"Not yet…"

Hunter's hands reached across, settling on Sebastian's back, the muscles tort, his nails reaching, digging in, mouth moving, up and down, up and down, in and out, in and out. The bubbling grew and grew, like in one of those old cartoons with the thermometer and the mercury spurting out the top, taking all his focus, just the boiling in the pit of his stomach and the tongue and skin all around him.

"Let go, Bas…"

With one final command, he arched up and down, the boiling in his stomach spreading all over his naked body, so that he lay on the covers warm and content, Hunter's body coming to rest on top of his, both men breathing heavily, breathing together, as their lips met in a passionate kiss.

"So," Hunter finally smiled, cheeks rosy red, "would you like me to get out my thermometer now?"

* * *

**Oh God... What have I done?**

**Yep. We went there. We officially went there. Blame it on the fact it's currently 7 am, I'm at work (have been for 9 hours now...) and no filter? Or... me taking the prompt too far? But, hey. Out of my comfort zone :p So... hope it's okay?**

**Bonus points if anyone can tell me anything about the title... because it has been taken from something :p**

**Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, showing love, ignoring... :p Thanks to PenMagic, Carbon65, Tara621, Eraman and ficdirectory!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be eaten by a latex glove? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	35. RIP Cory Monteith

**An unexpected goodbye**

… So I'm doing things a little differently this week. Because, this week we lost one of our own. I changed the order here so I've swapped with the next prompt (which I am writing now), but I had to get this down. But I had to write this before I could move on.

I suppose I want to just talk about Cory. The wonderful human being that we knew him as. The dude that scored one of the biggest roles on TV ever by filming himself playing on Tupperware drums. Humble, grounded, caring, if anything that I've heard is accurate. Generally fun to be around.

It's sad. Not just the fact that he died, but how. I honestly thought that he would get it through, get clean again… or as close to clean as an addict can be. And, this is how he'll be remembered – the Glee star that died of an overdose.

It never gets spoken about. What drives someone down that path. How it only takes one slip up to spiral completely out of control. One slip up to ruin a life. And not just your own.

I think what saddens me the most though, is that it'll always be spoken of as the overdose. He'll be remembered for his death. And not for what is most important of all – his journey through it. The fact that he made it through rehab the first time is amazing – and that he went out, he made a name for himself, he actually _lived_ a life. Just that alone, ignoring those urges every time they strike, takes so much strength. And then, rather than spiral out of control later on, a la Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, etc, he, of his own accord, checked himself back in to get more help.

This is what Cory should be remembered for. This enduring strength. The belief that things will get better, get easier. Showing everyone that it's okay to have faults, to be human – but to ask for help as well. Our final judgements of him should not rest on the actions of one night.

A few days ago, he was taken from us, just like we all, one day, too, will depart this earth and go… who knows where? I do like the idea though, that he's up there somewhere, waiting for his friends and family.

If you guys reading this need to talk at all – because, who knows, some of you may not have experienced loss before – I am always around. I am always here. Whatever you're feeling, you are more than entitled to.

I've never been great at these things, these writing letters for dead people things. I had to write part of a eulogy once a few years ago, and most of the time I stood there with no idea what to say. But I found this poem, and fell in love with it – the images, the ideas, they're beautiful, and I think you guys might also want to read it too. If it helps, then brilliant. If it doesn't, then at least you'll have read an amazing poem. It was written by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep.  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sun on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumnal rain.  
When you waken in the morning hush  
I am the soft uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circling flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry.  
I am not there. I did not die._

Thank you, Cory, for all that you have given to us. May we always remember you for the amazing life you lived.


End file.
